The Shadow Star
by Kereia
Summary: An old map, which had been entrusted to Governor Swann is stolen by two pirates. Norrington chases after Jack Sparrow and finds himself in dangerous waters.
1. Default Chapter

The Shadow Star 

  
Rating: PG-13   
Summary: An old map is given into Governor Swann's safe-keeping. Soon the map is stolen, split in half by the struggles of Captain Sparrow and his adversary. And so Commodore Norrington finds himself on the hunt again, realizing too late that the chase will hold more dangers than he bargained for.   
Diclaimer: All POTC characters belong to Disney. I'm just having a bit of fun with them.   
  


Prologue   
  
Night had settled over Port Royal as Geraldine quietly lit the oil lamps in Governor Swann's study so as not to disturb the two men who stood in front of the dark mahogany desk.   
  
"The artwork is magnificent, I admit." Governor Swann peered closely at the piece of parchment and frowned. "But it does not make any sense."   
  
The object of his attention was an old map painted in intricate and colourful detail, yet faded by age, upon a yellowed parchment that had begun to fray around the edges. The Governor carefully smoothed out the map and bent closer. He held a magnifying glass in his right hand and took great care to study every line and dot, attempting in vain to match the markings to any location he could remember.   
  
"I quiet agree, old friend. I quiet agree." Richard Travers put a hand on the Governor's shoulder. "And yet it holds the location of wealth beyond your wildest dreams."   
  
Richard Travers was a tall, thin man nearing fifty years of age, who could only be described as lanky. From what Geraldine had observed, he constantly seemed to be at odds with his limps, trying to look dignified but always managing to appear vaguely uncomfortable in his own skin. Although his nose was slightly to long, his mouth a bit too wide, and his green eyes a little too big for his oval shaped face, his countenance was handsome. It was the lines in his face that kept Geraldine and the other servants on their guard around him for they suggested that a sneer was more familiar to him than a smile, a frown and the twisted mask of fury more common than the approachable expression of kindness.   
  
Geraldine lit the last oil lamp behind the Governors desk. She knew that propriety demanded she leave the room at once and without calling attention to herself now that her task was done but duty warred with her curiosity for dominance. Geraldine dared to glance over her shoulder, her hand still raised to the last lamp.   
  
The men appeared to be completely engrossed in their study of the parchment. Judging herself to be safe for the moment she calmly walked past the two men towards the door, then turned around once she was standing behind them and dared to peek over the Governor's shoulder.   
  
While, at 5feet 7inches, the Governor was not a tall man by any standard, he still towered 5 inches over Geraldine and she had to raise and balance herself on tiptoes in order to sneak a look at the ancient map.   
  
Apart from what appeared to be the sketch of a shoreline, Geraldine glimpsed a four-pointed star in the upper left corner. Each of the star's tips was labelled with a letter written in a thin, elaborate script she could not decipher. The bottom of the map held several lines of writing in the same hand as well as detailed depictions of trees, birds, and random designs, the purpose of which Geraldine could not possible fathom.   
  
Suddenly, however, one of these drawing caught her attention. Intrigued she leaned closer to have a better look.   
  
"Governor, please forgive my intrusion."   
  
Commodore Norrington's sharp voice came from behind Geraldine and with a gasp of surprise she lost her balance. She hastily stepped forward to regain her footing and stopped with her nose only inches from the Governor's frilled collar. Mortified, her glance flickered up to the confounded expression of his face before she sank into a deep courtesy.   
  
"My apologies Governor. I am so sorry. I did not mean to pry." She backed away as fast as she could, not daring to look any of the men into the eye.   
  
Geraldine heard a slight rustling as the parchment was quickly rolled up.   
  
"Well, I must say Elerby, the conduct of your servants leaves much to be desired." Mr. Travers' voice, normally calm and monotone had taken on a slightly shrill note.   
  
"Come now, Richard, the girl was merely curious. There was no harm done."   
  
"I beg to differ. This map is most…. What I mean to say is that the nature of the situation…" Richard Travers paused as Geraldine, overcome by curiosity at hearing the usually eloquent man grasp for words, glanced upwards. "Perhaps it is best if we discuss the matter later. In _private_," he added with a pointed look at the servant girl. Geraldine flinched inwardly as Travers beckoned her towards him.   
  
"What have you seen?" Travers demanded to know. "Answer me, girl." He took a step into her direction his fist clenched around the map.   
  
"Nothing, Sir. Only a few lines and some writing." Travers face darkened. "But I was too far away to actually read it, Sir."   
  
"There you hear it, Richard. Now stop frightening the girl." Governor Swann stepped forward subtly putting himself between his friend and the servant girl.   
  
Geraldine had joined the Governor's household seven years ago. She found him to be a kind man, mild-tempered and just, and though she held the genuine affection for him that a niece might hold for an uncle, he had inadvertently driven her to frustration time and again.   
  
Geraldine had often thought the Governor to be somewhat meddlesome and exhaustingly excitable about any small and mundane event to the point of obliviousness regarding the serious nature of these social occasions. He seemed to find his way through propriety and social acceptance with sleep-walking sureness, as if he were not quiet aware of the intrigue and scheming that went on around him. He greeted friend and political enemy with the same heartfelt smile and opened gate and door for them without betraying the slightest awareness that he had assessed any measure of the person he was inviting into his home. It had always been a mystery to Geraldine how Governor Swann managed to remain in the favourable position of being the right hand of the king in this corner of the world. Even the marriage of his daughter to a blacksmith who had been convicted of piracy and whom Governor Swann had pardoned shortly thereafter had no significant alteration in his status and standing as a consequence.   
  
Now, however, after taking a quick look at Mr. Travers' face, which was a mask of barely concealed fury, Geraldine reassess her impression of the Governor's awareness to the people around him.   
  
Richard Travers was clinging onto the map so tightly that Geraldine doubted the parchment would remain undamaged if he kept mangling the paper much longer. Anxiety was radiating off him in waves and for once he did not appear lanky at all but rather formidably imposing. Geraldine swallowed nervously and tried to back away again. She came up short when she collided with the Commodore who was still standing behind her in the open doorway.   
  
Strong hands descended to her shoulders in order to steady her as Commodore Norrington stepped around and in front of her, blocking her view of Mr. Travers.   
  
Geraldine breathed a sigh of relief. Mr. Travers reaction seemed to be completely out of proportion with her misconduct. All she had done was steal a quick look at a map of which neither he nor the Governor could make either heads or tails. Unless… Unless of course he had recognized the small drawing a the bottom right corner.   
  
*And yet it holds the location of wealth beyond your wildest dreams.* Geraldine shivered as she remembered Travers' words. There was no doubt that he had recognized the markings.   
  
The servant girl dared to glimpse around the Commodore's tall frame. The Governor, aided by Norrington, seemed to be successful in his endeavour to calm Mr. Travers. At least his hands weren't clenched around the map anymore.   
  
Geraldine narrowed her eyes and considered the situation carefully. She did not know Mr. Travers very well. He had arrived two days ago, sailing into the harbour aboard the _Seerose_, a merchant ship on which he had bought passage for himself and his family. A man of some fortune, he and his wife as well as their three daughters were to stay as guest at the Governor's estate, while the family scouted the surrounding countryside for a suitable piece of land to build their new home. From Mr. Travers' manner and the little snippets of conversation she had overheard about him she did not think him to be a seafaring man. Maybe he was a scholar of old lore and had thus found out that this map existed.   
  
A black seven-pointed star above a quarter full moon. Geraldine repressed another shiver as she recalled the small picture from the map.   
  
"Geraldine!" Governor Swann's voice snapped her out of her reverie. "Please go to the kitchen and see that diner is coming along as planned. Wait there until I summon you again." The man nodded encouragingly, then dismissed her with a wave of his hand.   
  
"Of course, Your Excellency." With another courtesy Geraldine hastened out of the room.   
  


* * *

  
Notes: I apologize for any and all spelling and grammatical mistakes. English is not my first language and by writing I'm trying to gain a better understanding of it. So if there are any mistakes you'd like to point out to me, so I can fix them, I appreciate any help I can get. :-) Simply e-mail me here :dpe115@aol.com 


	2. The Visitor

I - The Visitor   
  


It was well past ten o'clock when Geraldine joined her mother and sister in the kitchen. The pots and kettles, plates and cutlery used for the late dinner had been washed and stowed away in their respective cupboards and drawers and the stove's coals were burning out, leaving just enough heat to prepare a last kettle of tea for the remaining servants.   
  
After the Governor had eaten his dinner he had called for Geraldine. She had hurried upstairs to his study and had knocked timidly on the door, aware of the scolding she would most likely receive. Fortunately, Governor Swann had not been as severe as she had dreaded. He had, however, reminded her that while Mr. Travers' reaction had been somewhat strong he had been absolutely right to admonish her. He had also pointed out that his servants' conduct reflected upon his own and had therefore been quiet adamant that she promise him to never embarrass him in this manner again. Duly chastised, she had given her word and had apologized again before she had been allowed to leave.   
  
The kitchen was barely lit by two oil lamps, which cast the light of their diminished flames upon either end of the long wooden table that took up most of the room. The right hand wall held the stoves as well as an open fireplace where a large kettle could be suspended. On the opposite wall, shelves and cupboards fashioned of dark, sturdy wood stretched from one corner to the other. Across from the door were two windows to either side of the servant entrance beyond which a short flight of stairs let to the gardens.   
  
Except for her mother and Amelia, her younger sister, the kitchen was empty. The two women sat at the far end of the table, steaming cups of tea in their hands and secretive smiles on their faces. When Geraldine entered the kitchen she found both of the women turning towards her.   
  
"So how did it go, my dear?" her mother asked.   
  
"Did he throw you out on the street?" Amelia inquired excitedly. "Or threaten to hang you at the gallows?"   
  
Geraldine smiled indulgently at her ten year old sister. "He did neither, you bloodthirsty brute." She approached her sister and bent down to tickle her mercilessly. Squirming, Amelia tried to fend off her sister's attack, her laughter echoing throughout the room. Eventually Geraldine pushed her sister gently to the side and sat down opposite her mother. She reached for the third teacup which was sitting on the table, but her mother shooed her hand away from the warm beverage.   
  
"That's not for you dear. If you'd like some tea, please get your own cup."   
  
Geraldine looked at her mother and sister askance. "Who else is still awake at this hour?"   
  
Amelia started to giggle. When Geraldine turned towards her sister she caught Amelia throwing an amused glance into the left corner of the kitchen. Geraldine turned around sharply. The corner was thick with shadows and Geraldine could not see who was hiding in the darkness, but there was no need for her to see. She knew exactly who had come by to visit.   
  
"You can come out, you know," she challenged good-naturedly. "There is no need to be afraid of me."   
  
A low, velvet laugh escaped the shadows and drifted into the light. "When we heard footsteps coming down the stairs we could not be sure that it was you." The visitor walked quietly towards the table and sat down next to Geraldine's mother. "It would have been quiet the spectacle if anyone but you and your family would see me here."   
  
Geraldine smiled. "I doubt anyone would recognize you. They think you are a monster. A think of nightmares and shadows."   
  
The visitor shrugged. "Still, one must not draw more attention than necessary. Especially in this town."   
  
"Scared of the Commodore?"   
  
"Oh, he would never be able to catch you, would he?" Amelia chimed in. "You are far too smart for him."   
  
"Quite so, my dear." Geraldine recognized a flicker of…was it doubt? or fear? in deep brown eyes, belying the confidence in the visitor's voice.   
  
"I know why you're here." She blurted out and found those same eyes trained on her.   
  
"Do you, really?" Amusement resounded in the visitor's voice. "Well then, by all means, enlighten me. Why am I hear?"   
  
Geraldine caught the smile that past over her mother's lips as she stood and prepared another cup of tea for herself. "Don't you think you are being a bit rude, Geraldine. We were so enjoying a nice spot of harmless conversation." She rubbed a hand over her aching back and returned to the table. "If you start now on one of your mysteries and adventures again, Amelia will not sleep all night."   
  
Amelia pouted. "Who wants to sleep anyway? I want to see the ship. Can I see the ship?" She turned towards the visitor with a pleading expression on her face and was crestfallen when she received a gentle, but firm denial.   
  
"Not this time. If all goes well I won't be here long. There is something I must find. Something important. And as soon as I found it I shall leave again."   
  
"It won't be easy for you to get your hands on that map." Geraldine said offhandedly.   
  
There was a moment's silence, when Geraldine found herself growing slightly uncomfortable under the suddenly intense gaze of the person opposite her. "You have seen the map?!"   
  
"Yes. A friend of Governor Swann brought it with him."   
  
"Travers." The name was spoken in a soft hiss.   
  
Amelia looked utterly fascinated and hung onto every word of the conversation but Geraldine's mother looked concerned. "I think it's best if we leave you two alone." She raised herself to her feet and ushered a protesting Amelia out the door. "It was a pleasure to see you again," she nodded kindly into the visitor's direction. "You should come by more often. We have missed you," she added more quietly before leaving the kitchen.   
  
"I did not mean to scare anyone away."   
  
Geraldine snickered. "You know how excitable Amelia is. She really won't get a wink of sleep tonight. She'll babble on till morning, telling her dolls that she will be a pirate one day and what wondrous adventures she will have."   
  
There was an odd balance between sadness and pride in the visitor's voice. "Leave her these dreams Geraldine, but I truly hope she will choose a different life when she grows up."   
  
"I haven't heard you talk like that before. Did something happen?"   
  
There was a coldness in the air that made Geraldine shiver and even the quick, easy smile throw her way, could not completely erase the lingering sense of foreboding that crept up on her.   
  
"Not yet," she heard the quiet whisper. Then the visitor straightened. "Now, tell me about this map."   
  
"I saw it in the Governor's study. Got told off for sneaking a look at it, but I saw the star and moon with my own eyes."   
  
"And is it still in the study or did Travers take the map with him?"   
  
Geraldine considered this. "I don't know. But if the map is what I think it is, and Travers knows about it, than I'm sure he won't give it out of his hands."   
  
"Travers knows what the map is. What he does not know is how to use it, yet."   
  
Geraldine gasped. "Are you sure?"   
  
"Yes. He paid a guard to make sure that all of Gareth's possessions _disappeared_, and then took the map for himself."   
  
"That means that Captain Gareth is…"   
  
"Dead. He was hanged the day before I left London."   
  
"London? Are you mad?" Geraldine shrieked. "What the devil were you doing in England? You could have been seen. You could have been caught!"   
  
The visitor laughed, though the sound was lacking any humour. "It's the hangman's noose for me, whether they catch me in England, the coast of Africa or here in the Caribbean."   
  
Still agitated, Geraldine rose to her feat and finally prepared her own tea, hoping that such a mundane task would calm her nerves. "To think that only a few moments ago you spoke of drawing as little attention to yourself as possible." She sat the cup on the table rather more forcefully than she had intended to, causing half the liquid to spill over the delicate porcelain rim. "Can't you just leave the map where it is? It's far too dangerous. And as you just said the map is of no use to Mr. Travers."   
  
"But Travers is not the only one who wants the map for himself. The Bulldog is after him. That's why he is hiding here."   
  
Geraldine sat down, her nerves in a jitter. "The Bulldog." She swallowed heavily raising a hand to her chest. "He's not coming here, is he? Oh, please tell me that he is not coming here."   
  
"From what I hear he cannot be far behind me. He chased Gareth all the way from the Indies to England and into the arms of the hangman. I doubt that he will consider Travers to be a serious obstacle."   
  
"No he won't" Geraldine put her hands flat on the table to keep them from shaking.   
  
"So you see why I must have the map. And I must take it into my possession quickly. When the Bulldog finds what he is after no one will be safe, Geraldine. I need that map and take it far away from here."   
  
A strange and unexpected resolve manifested itself inside Geraldine. "How will you take the map from Mr. Travers?"   
  
"I cannot simply take it from him. Nobody must know that I have it. You must find it Geraldine. He won't be able to keep it on his person all the time. There must be a safe place where he can hide it if need be. Do you think you could find this place?"   
  
"The safest place would be in the Governor's personal library upstairs. Only he and Edward, his valet, have the key to it, and rumour has it that there is a safe behind one of the shelves. Miranda usually cleans the room once a week under Edward's supervision."   
  
"Could you convince Miranda to yield her place to you this week?"   
  
"Yes, with little difficulty, but what about Edward?"   
  
"I'll take care of that. I will merely need you to tell me when you'll be in the library."   
  
"You want hurt him, won't you?"   
  
The visitor laughed. A full, rich sound borne of genuine amusement. "Of course, I won't. I think you've been hearing too many stories about me lately."   
  
Geraldine smiled sheepishly. "They are getting worse every year. If I had not know you for as long as I did I would have died of fright the second you stepped out of that corner."   
  
"It's settled then. I will be awaiting your word. You can find me aboard the _Pinaforte_."   
  
The visitor stood and leaned across the table to press a quick kiss to Geraldine's forehead.   
  
"The _Pinaforte_? But what happened to the _Emerald Queen_?"   
  
Grinning, the visitor turned around, one hand poised over the doorknob of the servant entrance. "Do you honestly think I would sail the _Emerald Queen_ into Port Royal, right under the nose of your ever vigilant Commodore?"   
  
Geraldine flushed lightly with embarrassment, her gaze on the teacup. "No, that would not be very smart, I suppose."   
  
She looked up to wish her visitor farewell, but the room was already empty.   
  



	3. The Moon Tide

II - The Moon Tide   
  


It promised to be a bright and sunny day in Port Royal. A light sea breeze stirred the warm morning air carrying the distinctive fragrance of salt water and palm trees through the open window of Commodore Norrington's office.   
  
The Commodore sat behind his Spartan desk and finished the last of the morning's paperwork. With a flourish he affixed his signature to the last document, stacked the paper neatly atop the others and rose from his chair.   
  
Taking his tricorn from the desk, he walk towards the door and stood only moments later at the pier. He drew a deep breath and allowed the merest hint of a smile to break through his schooled expression of stern solemnity. The _Dauntless_ was anchored out in the bay, bathed in sunlight. It was a sight that made pride swell in the Commodore's chest, a feeling that did not diminish in the slightest as he surveyed the other ships docked at the piers. The _HMS Kerrington_, a middle-sized frigate was anchored on the far side of the docks, while the _HMS Pierce_ was anchored closer to the port. The _Pierce_ was the replacement for the _HMS Interceptor_, which had been lost at sea eight months ago. Some refinement had been made in the ships design, giving the _Pierce_ even more capacity for speed without the necessity to reign in its firepower.   
  
The _Kerrington_ had taken some damage two weeks ago defending Fort Charles from a short-lived pirate attack. Repairs were almost complete and Commodore Norrington looked forward to seeing the ship returned to peak condition.   
  
The Commodore was about to inspect said repairs, when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. When he turned around he saw Governor Swann heading towards him, Mr. Travers at his side flanked by two armed constables.   
  
"Commodore," Governor Swann addressed him, "might we have a moment? We require your assistance."   
  
Norrington nodded his greeting. "Certainly, Governor. How may I be of service?"   
  
Mr. Travers stepped forward. "Perhaps, Commodore, it would be best if we discussed the matter in your office."   
  
Although the Commodore loathed to spend any more time cooped up indoors, he readily agreed. With a formal gesture he invited the men to walk in front of him. Mr. Travers immediately marched off across the docks, the constables following behind. The Governor, however, lingered a moment and fell into step with Norrington.   
  
"I presume this matter concerns the mysterious map that caused such a stir in your study yesterday."   
  
Governor Swann nodded. "It does indeed. Neither Mr. Travers nor I could find any visual reference on the map that would connect it to known shorelines in Europe, Africa or the Americas. We were hoping that you, being a seafaring man, could shed some light as to the location this map depicts."   
  
The pair had reached the Commodore's office and entered. Mr. Travers was already sitting in Norrington's chair an air of impatience around him. The map was displayed on the desk.   
  
"Now Commodore," Travers said, "is there anything you recognize?"   
  
Norrington repressed a frown at seeing Travers sitting in his chair. His dislike for the man had been immediate upon their introduction. There was a certain standoffish arrogance to the Governor's guest that Norrington did not care for at all. The animosity seemed to be mutual as Mr. Travers had made certain remarks regarding Norrington's age in relation to his rank as well as his conduct during Miss Swann's abduction that made his low opinion of the officer quiet obvious.   
  
On account that Mr. Travers was the Governor's guest and a friend of the Swann family, the Commodore had chosen to ignore these comments as long as Mr. Travers avoided a direct insult. However, the uninvited occupation of his chair was such an insult and Norrington quickly dismissed the idea to overlook the affront.   
  
He stepped next to Travers and glared down on him.   
  
"If you would be so kind to relinquish my chair, Sir." He took care to keep his tone level and pleasant, for any display of anger would have put him at a disadvantage.   
  
Travers arrogantly stared back at him for a moment before he broke eye contact. "Of course, Commodore. I apologize," he pressed forth between gritted teeth.   
  
"Thank you." Norrington sat and pulled the map closer to study it. The star's tips in the upper left corner were labelled clockwise from the top with the letters J, M, N, and V. Most of the parchment was taken up by the drawing of a map, while the bottom was partitioned off by a horizontal line below which three verses, each containing five lines, where written in a language the Commodore was not familiar with. It was neither French, nor Spanish, or Latin although the shape of letters pointed to a European language. On the far left corner were two depictions of a bird, the one on top being a stork the lower one a falcon. In between the birds was the drawing of a tree. Unknown designs and multicoloured symbols had been painted into the space separating the three verses. And the right corner held the marking of a black star above a quarter moon which was the only object the Commodore recognized.   
  
He indicated the picture with his finger. "Those are the markings of the _Moon Tide_, if I'm not mistaken."   
  
Mr. Travers sneered down at him. "Yes, we already know that. But what of the writing? Or the shoreline? Do you recognize those?"   
  
"I admit that I do not." It took the Commodore no small portion of self-control to reign in his temper. He did not appreciate being lectured or scolded like a schoolboy. There were quiet a few thinks he would have liked to say to Mr. Travers had he been at liberty to do so. Instead he shook his head regretfully. "However, we have quiet a few excellent maps at our disposal on the _Dauntless_. If you would permit me to keep the map in my possession for few days, further research…"   
  
"I'm afraid that will be quiet impossible, Commodore," Travers interrupted him. His hands darted to the map then stopped as if he had to forcefully quench the instinct to keep the map in his possession. He seemed to consider for a moment before taking a deep breath. "Although if you would be so kind to send those maps to Governor Swann's home. I would be very interested to compare them with this document." Travers' voice was civil but audibly tense.   
  
Norrington gave the man a long, hard look. He had to admit that this map intrigued him very much. When he had witnessed the dispute about the servant girl's conduct at the mansion yesterday, he had thought the matter to be disdainfully trivial and had found little reason for Mr. Travers' flare of temper. Now, that he knew the map was connected to the Moon Tide, he could understand why Mr. Travers was in such a contentious state.   
  
The _Moon Tide_ had been a pirate ship sailing off the coast of Madagascar. It's captain had been known as Matthew 'the Beast' Bartholm, a blue eyed devil who had sunk and plundered merchant ships loaded with gold and diamonds from the African colonies. The ship had disappeared eighty years ago and, as so often, none of the Beast's treasure had been found. Though Norrington was convinced that, just like any other pirate, the Beast and his crew had spent the stolen valuables on ale and amusing company, rumours of a hidden treasure had never completely died down. Many, pirates and merchants alike, had tried to find it, leaving nigh a stone unturned on the Madagascan coast, but nothing had ever been retrieved.   
  
And now this map had been found.   
  
Though even more puzzling was the fact that instead of travelling to Africa, Mr. Travers had crossed the Atlantic to the Caribbean and was now requesting to compare the Moon Tide's map to naval maps depicting the shorelines of the Americas. The matter was most intriguing indeed and Norrington realized that he precious little information to assess the situation.   
  
Commodore Norrington nodded politely at Mr. Travers. "If it is your wish to compare the maps in private, you may, of course, do so. I will have copies send to you as soon as my duties allow."   
  
Travers offered his thanks and snatched the map from the desk. He folded it carefully and stowed it into a leather satchel, which he put into the inner pocket of his coat. Then, without further ado, he excused himself.   
  
The Governor, who had remained a quiet but astute observer of the confrontation, motioned towards the door. "Walk with me, Commodore," he said, not unkindly.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Governor Swann and Commodore Norrington walked along the pier past the _HMS Pierce_. Norrington nodded in acknowledgement to the saluting crew, before refocusing his attention on the man next to him. Governor Swann surveyed the _Dauntless_ with an appreciative gaze.   
  
"A truly marvellous ship, Commodore."   
  
Norrington permitted himself to smile. "I agree, Sir."   
  
"I understand that the _Kerrington_ will be ready to join our fleet again shortly."   
  
The Commodore knew Governor Swann well enough to realize that his inquiry had been made out of politeness rather then actual interest and therefore kept his answer short. "Yes, Governor. Lieutenant Gillette is overseeing the repairs and he assures me that the _Kerrington_ will be seaworthy by the end of the week."   
  
"That's good to hear, Commodore. I don't mind saying that I am quiet impressed with the way you carry out your occupation. The citizens of Fort Charles are very fortunate to have such a capable man ensuring their safety."   
  
"Thank you, Your Excellency." While Norrington forced himself to smile as though charmed by the compliment, inside he repressed a sigh. Ever since the Governor's daughter, Elizabeth, had broken off their engagement to marry William Turner, Governor Swann had been prone to these occasional bouts of flattery. Norrington endured them with dignity since he knew the Governor was concerned about him, although he considered the ordeal to be rather patronizing in nature.   
  
The Governor took a deep breath before facing him. "Now, about this mysterious map. May I be frank and ask your thoughts on the matter?"   
  
"With due respect Governor. I doubt that the map is authentic."   
  
"Mr. Travers seems to be convinced that it is."   
  
"The Moon Tide vanished over a half a century ago, Sir. Some say a storm crushed it against a reef near Cape Town, others claim it was attacked by another pirate vessel. There are no consistent reports, I'm afraid. Rumours of treasure have been broad and unreliable. Nothing of the ship or its cargo has ever been found. No stray coin or trinket , no flotsam. I am quiet certain that this map will turn out be another dead end, Governor."   
  
Governor Swann sighed regretfully. "You might very well be right. We shall see." The men stopped walking. "If you would excuse me now, I must attend to my guests."   
  
"Of course, Your Excellency."   
  
"I am holding a ball the day after tomorrow to celebrate the arrival of Mr. And Mrs. Travers. You shall, of course, receive a formal invitation by this afternoon, but Mrs. Travers insisted I casually inquire if you will attend." There was an amused glint in the Governor's eyes that Norrington found entirely inappropriate. Although, on reflection, he had to admit that his vexation stemmed more from the prospect of spending an evening in the company of women who wanted him to marry their daughters rather than from the Governor's amusement at seeing him struggle to escape such a commitment.   
  
"I would be delighted, Sir."   
  
"Then Mrs. Travers will be quiet pleased." Chuckling in amusement, Governor Swann departed.   
  
Commodore Norrington despised to admit, even to himself, that he was still hurting from the unexpected blow Elizabeth had dealt him, when she had chosen Will Turner. Norrington had done the honourable thing and stepped down, never giving Elizabeth any indication that his feelings had run deeper than she had believed. He understood that she had to follow her heart but that didn't make the pain any easier to bare. He had even attended the wedding four weeks ago, smiled politely and offered his best wishes for a happy future, knowing that she would have never found happiness with him. It was a realization that cut him deeply and so he had immersed himself in his work until, on the brink of exhaustion, one of his Lieutenants aided by Privates Murtogg and Mullroy had breached protocol and dragged him against his express wishes to a small Tavern in Fort Charles were he had drunken himself into a pleasant stupor.   
  
When he had come back to his senses sometime during the next afternoon, he had dearly wished to march Lieutenant Gillette to the gallows and see him hang for his audacity. He had shouted once for Matthias, his valet, before he had buried his head in his pillow fearing that it would explode. When the pain had subsided enough for him to dress and face the bright sunlight he had found the young Lieutenant aboard the _Pierce_ issuing orders and altogether handling Norrington's duties quiet capably in the absence of his superior. Needless to say that this had done absolutely nothing to improve the Commodore's mood.   
  
To this day he did not know how Gillette had managed to keep Norrington's slip of self control a secret, but after he had studied his men carefully for several days he came to the conclusion that they were unaware of his conduct that night. He had ordered Lieutenant Gillette to join him on the quarterdeck and although he had still been rather bellicose he had realized that it was his own conduct rather than Gillette's unauthorized behaviour that irked him the most. In hindsight, he even admitted that as unbecoming of a gentleman it was to get intoxicated beyond reason he had needed a moment to let go, something he would have never allowed himself to do while he was sober. The young officer had stood before him ready to accept whatever punishment his superior chose to deal out, but giving no indication that he regretted his actions. Norrington had found a grudging respect for the Gillette, the man, not just the Gillette, the officer, that day.   
  
The Lieutenant had taken the rather lenient dressing-down in stride and had returned to his duties never loosing a word about either incident. Norrington had given the two Privates the same reproach and they kept their silence as well as Gillette had done. It was only on the day after, when his head had finally stopped threatening to split open that he had felt grateful for their actions and had to restrain himself to apologize for his abruptness the day before.   
  
He had slowly begun to recuperate then. And having suffered enough heartache for the time being he had successfully dodged any attempts to entice him into proposing marriage again, though they had been numerous indeed.   
  
Being a Commodore at 36 as the youngest son of Lord Christopher Norrington, he was an eligible match and many mother of unmarried daughters had set her eyes on him as a potential son-in-law. He realized that he would have to take a wife one day and dreaded being betrothed to one of an endless parade of young, pretty, sophisticated girls who lacked any spirit and waited demurely until her mother had picked a suitable husband for them. Or worse, a woman with spirit who lacked any capacity for common sense.   
  
Unbidden, the image of Elizabeth invaded his thoughts again and he forcefully pushed it aside. It was no use to mourn lost opportunities. She had made her choice and, being a gentleman, he had respected it.   
  



	4. The Night Watch

I - The Night Watch   
  


Sunset was still a few hours away when James Dericks entered _The Night Watch_. The secluded Tavern was situated in the less respectable parts of Port Royal and the risk of running into any soldier of His Majesty's Royal Navy was negligible. Despite the early hour the Tavern was crowded. Little light found its way through tarnished windows, casting the small room in shadows. About a dozen crudely furnished tables were scattered across the room, two benches on either side. There were booths partitioned off on the wall furthest from the widows. The far side was occupied by a large bar behind which several barrels of ale were lined up. The dim glow of candles provided the only illumination aside from the scarce sunlight. Most of the patrons were sailors and poor merchants, filthy and unshaven, some clothed in rags, others hooded, there faces hidden in shadows.   
  
Once inside, Dericks looked around uncertainly before he headed for a dark corner on the other side of the room and slipped into the shadows off a small booth. The space was already occupied by an old man, bent half over the table with age and sickness. His scalp was bare, an eye patch covered his left eye socket and a vicious scar ran from underneath his right ear across the cheek to the corner of his thin-lipped mouth. Faded tattoos covered his exposed arms while his clothes hung in tatters around him. Yet, to a close observer the image the man projected seemed incomplete as if something was not quiet right about his appearance. Then again, _The Night Watch_ was not known to welcome close observers.   
  
"You're late." The man's voice was a low growl.   
  
James forced his hands to stop shaking and hid them in his lap. "I couldn't get away any sooner."   
  
"Do you have the map?" There was a definite note of impatience in the man's voice.   
  
"I… I don't" James desperately faught down his rising panic when he saw the man's hand reach into his robes. "I tried. I really did." He shrank back against the wall. "Please, Mr. Roberts, I did what I could, but he never leaves it unattended. There was no way… no way, I assure you…" His voice trailed off in a hitched gasp. His breathing was fast, his eyes widened in fear.   
  
"You are his valet, James. He trust you." The man's growl deepened to a velvet purr. "Surely you could have tried harder."   
  
The man's hand had stilled underneath his robes and James was sure that there was a pistol aimed at him underneath the table.   
  
"I tried." James whispered, frozen with fear. "Mr. Travers doesn't trust anyone." There was the soft noise of metal moving against metal and James forgot to breath for a moment. "He trusted me at one time," he hastened to explain, his voice low so as not to attract any attention, "but ever since he got his hands on that damned map he sees assailants in every corner and traitors all around him. He keeps the map on his person all the time. He even has it bound to his back when he sleeps and he keeps a loaded pistol underneath his pillow. He even relegated his wife to another guestroom fearing that she would steal the map. I'm telling you, your brother has gone mad with paranoia." The words tumbled out of his mouth and he realized too late what he had said. Frenzied, his gaze snapped up to Roberts face. He recoiled when he was confronted with the man's barely contained fury.   
  
"Don't you _ever_ dare to.." the voice was like a thunderstorm.   
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Roberts. I'm really…It won't happen again. I'm sorry."   
  
The fury was washed away by an abrupt coldness. An ill-content smile twisted Roberts' face into a horrid mask but James did not dare to look away.   
  
"Well then, my boy, if I can't simply take the map, then Mr. Travers will just have to hand it over, won't he?"   
  
James wondered how Mr. Richards fancied to accomplish this but he felt it was better not to ask.   
  
Richards held his tankard of ale under his nose and studied the liquid inside for a while as if it were a crystal ball revealing the future. "Yes. Yes, indeed," he whispered almost absentmindedly before he turned back to James. "My dear brother," he spat the word in disgust, "has quiet a few beautiful daughters, don't you think?"   
  
James tried to swallow the suddenly bitter taste in his mouth.   
  
"The youngest is only twelve, if I remember correctly. Do you think it will be enough if merely one of them disappeared? Or do you think the bastard is cold hearted enough to refuse to hand over the map until I killed her and threatened his other daughters? I suppose it would make little difference whether I kidnap one or two of them. Maybe I should take all three just to be sure." Roberts didn't wait for James to answer. "Yes, all of them. That will be best."   
  
James was still nervous but now that Roberts' attention was occupied with the a matter other than him he allowed himself to relax slightly.   
  
"I need to know when the ladies will be out of the house. They just arrived in Fort Charles. I'm sure they will be interested in exploring Port Royal."   
  
James nodded eagerly, glad he could finally prove his helpfulness. "Indeed they will. They plan to go shopping tomorrow afternoon. I overheard Mrs. Travers saying that a few things were needed in preparation for the ball," he hesitated a moment. "She also seemed very keen to ask Commodore Norrington to accompany them."   
  
Richards frowned. He had heard of Norrington, of course. He seemed a zealous, albeit capable man whose reputation spoke for itself. While Richards did not fear to cross paths with the Commodore, he was not fool enough to provoke such a confrontation. He had no desire to leave Port Royal with three ships of His Majesties Royal Navy pursuing him.   
  
"That won't do then. But about this ball?"   
  
"It is held at the Governor's estate the day after tomorrow."   
  
"And I'm sure Commodore Norrington and his officers will be there as well. Tricky, very tricky." Roberts considered for a moment. "On the other hand… with so many people around three young women might not be immediately missed. It would give us a bit of a head start."   
  
James nodded hurriedly. "I could ask the ladies out into the garden under some pretext. From what I heard there has been very little pirate activity these last few weeks. I'm sure there won't be many guards around."   
  
There was an intense gleam in Roberts' eyes as he leaned across the table. "You better be more successful with this assignment than the last, my boy."   
  
Fear crept back into James' eyes. "I will Mr. Richards. Though now that I thought about it I believe it would be best to make Pamela ask the girls to step out into the gardens. They will trust her. She is Miss Mirabelle's maid. Greedy little wench, would do anything for a coin, though she has not enough brains to fill a pea shell." James allowed himself a disdainful smile born of superiority.   
  
"I didn't know you two were related."   
  
James smile faltered at the sarcastic remark. "We are not."   
  
Roberts didn't deem it necessary to reply. "My crew will be waiting in the gardens then." He grabbed James by the scruffs of his shirt and pulled him closer until James flinched away from the foul smell that drifted into his face. "And make no mistake!" His tone was harsh and demanding.   
  
The man let go of him and made to rise to his feet when James' voice halted him. "Sir,… about my reward. Sir."   
  
Roberts glared down at him. "Your reward?"   
  
His mouth dry with agitation, James tried to remain calm. Though he questioned the wisdom of raising the subject at this time, Roberts had promised him ample payment for his service. Finally greed won over caution. "Yes, Sir. We agreed that…"   
  
"We agreed," Roberts bend down and put a hand to James throat, "that you would get paid, once I have the map. And not a moment sooner."   
  
Whimpering, James nodded. He frantically whispered apologies until Roberts hand eased from his throat. The man turned away from the table and James breathed a sigh of relief.   
  
But then Roberts turned back towards him again and stepped closer to James, shielding them from prying eyes. "The servant girl. Her name was Pamela?" There was a gleam in the man's eyes that caused the young man to shiver uncontrollably.   
  
"Yes."   
  
Roberts smiled. "Very good."   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Merry carelessly wiped the wet cloth over the crude wooden table, before she picked up the empty tankards. She was on her way to the kitchen when someone gave her a sharp clap on her bottom. Furious she whirled around and glared at the smirking sailor. "You better keep your hands to yourself if you don't want to leave this place a foot shorter and an octave higher than when you came in."   
  
The man only continued to leer at her. "But who could resist such a sweet treat, luv." Several coins hit the tabletop. "Won't you give a poor lonely chap a spot of company?" Merry took one of the coins and bit on it to asses its worth. Then she smiled and dropped herself onto the man's lap, ale tankards still in her hand.   
  
"If you give me a moment to clean up, I'm sure we will come to an arrangement, sweetheart."   
  
The man was too enticed by her ample cleavage to answer with anything but a low grunt. With a coquettish flutter of her eyelashes that the sailor didn't notice, Merry departed. She had almost reached the kitchen when a light dripping noise came to her attention. With a frown she looked around. The sound must be close by for her to hear it over the noise of the tavern's occupants. Finally she glanced into the booth in the near corner. A man lay sleeping, slumped halfway across the table, his face turned away from her. A tankard had fallen over spilling its content across the table where the ale dripped then onto the floor. Merry frowned in annoyance. Cleaning up would take some time.   
  
"Hey Merry, " a voice called from behind the bar. Merry hurried over, put the tankards down and leaned forward. Thomas, the kitchen boy, was standing at the foot of the stairs that led to the cellars and looked up at her.   
  
"What is it?" she shouted down.   
  
"It's dripping down here." He pointed over to the corner.   
  
"So what? Wipe it up. Guest spilled his ale."   
  
"Its not ale, it blood."   
  
Merry whirled around and stared at the booth. She marched to the table and grasped the short, dark hair on the man's head to pull him up. With a disgusted sound, she let him fall back down.   
  
The man's throat had been cut.   
  
Supremely annoyed now, the woman stalked back over to the bar and shouted at Thomas. "Get up here and fetch the constable."   
  
Cleaning up would definitely take some time now.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
On the beach, not far from _ The Night Watch_, a man kneeled by a shallow pool of water that ocean waves had created in a small outcropping of rocks. He splashed water on his face and rubbed furiously until the scar that had split his cheek disappeared. Then he washed the tattoos from his arms. At last the man reached for his eye patch, pulled it off and hid it in the tattered rags covering his body. When he rose to his feet he did not appear old or sickly, but cut the muscular figure of a tall man.   
  
Roberts smiled as he strode towards the beach where two of his men where waiting for him with a small boat. _*Brother, you will be sorry that you double-crossed me,*_ he thought. _*Very sorry indeed.*_   
  
"Beware Richard," he whispered into the wind. "For the Bulldog is after you."   
  
  
  



	5. Before the Storm

IV - Before the Storm   
  
The next day, The Bulldog strode across the deck of the Rip Tide, his first mate Stevens by his side. When he reached his cabin he proceeded to tear the smelling rags from his body.   
  
"Make sure that the crew lays low. We can't risk drawing any attention to us. I don't want to hear of any brawls or drunken riots." He stuffed the clothes into one of two trunks that stood beside his bunk, then pulled out clean trousers, a shirt and jacket. "If any of them step out of line get rid off them. And I don't want the bodies to be found until we've left."   
  
"Aye, aye." Stevens reached for the plain brown cap that had been carelessly thrown over a chandelier and handed it to his Captain.   
  
"I also want you to pick five or six men. A couple of sharpshooters would be good. Take Martin and Saman. And prepare one of the cabins, we are going to have company."   
  
"There will be guards posted around the Governor's mansion, now that Deriks is dead."   
  
The Bulldog paused. He would not have tolerated such an remark from any other man, but he had known Stevens long enough to know that he was not questioning his actions. Though he would have had reason to. Robert Travers had to admit that killing the whelp might have been rash. But it had never been a smart idea to tempt his wrath. The impertinence of asking for a reward after failing so miserable to procure the map… by the gods, the lad had asked for it.   
  
"You're right. Once they find the body, Travers will be suspicious." The Bulldog smiled maliciously. "So we'll have the chance to send a few of those spruced up navy boys to kingdom come." He sobered somewhat. "We'll have to be careful though."   
  
He swept the jacket over his shoulder and tilted the cap so it dipped below his shaved off hairline. Satisfied, he gazed into the floor length mirror that stood against the far wall. He looked like a commoner, not like a Pirate Captain. One among hundreds. There was nothing remarkable about him. His appearance was instantly forgettable.   
  
Giving off a bellowed laugh, the Bulldog slapped his first mate good-naturedly on the shoulder. "And now, my friend, I have to convince a charming and greedy young lassie to do me a favour or two." He took a small satchel filled with gold coins from his desk and left the cabin.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
"I know it must be here somewhere. I distinctly remember packing it into one of the trunks."   
  
Constance was kneeling in front of her drawers and rummaged through its contents, flinging garments carelessly to the ground. Her maid, Theresa, futilely tried to pick the clothes up and put them back into their respective drawers. "Miss Constance, please." The servant girl looked in horror at the articles strewn about the wooden floor and the thick, intricately woven carpets. "My lady, look at the mess you've made."   
  
Constance looked up from her furious search and looked around. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Theresa." She jumped to her feet and walked over to her wardrobe. "I promise I'll help you clean it up later." She gave Theresa a slightly guilty smile. "But first I have to find my hat. I really want to wear it on my first sightseeing tour of Fort Charles."   
  
Her arms full of fabric, Theresa sighed in exasperation. "Your mother won't we pleased at all. She told you to leave the hat in England."   
  
Constance only laughed. "She told me to leave so many things at home. Honestly, she will hardly remember all of them. I doubt she will realize…"   
  
A sudden knock on the door interrupted her.   
  
Theresa hurried back to the drawer and started folding the clothes as Constance bid the person beyond the door to enter. The excited face of her twelve year old sister peaked around the door.   
  
"Mirabelle, come in." Constance laughed high spirited and picked up a candlestick as her sister approached. She held it in front of her like a sword and poked her sister in the rips. "How dare you invade my sanctuary, little demon. Have you come to slay me?"   
  
Mirabelle giggled. "Actually I'm just hiding from Isabeau. She says I can't come along when you go off shopping," she grasped Constance's hand. "But I so want to. I'm sure it will be terribly exciting. Do you think the Commodore will allow you to see the ships?"   
  
"I doubt it." Constance frowned. "Even if he would not mind, mother would never allow it."   
  
The smile slipped from Mirabelle's face. "I think you're right."   
  
Like all members of the family, Mirabelle was tall for her age. Unlike Constance and Isabeau, however, she had inherited her father's green eyes and dark hair. Constance and her sister took after their mother's looks.   
  
Constance gently ruffled her sister's hair. "Don't be so glum. We'll sneak out later, when Isabeau and I have returned. I'm sure the Commodore will excuse himself after we had tea. No sane man would voluntarily spend more time than necessary listening to mother show us off as if we were cows on the cattle market."   
  
"Constance!" Mirabelle gasped in shock than dissolved into giggles. "Don't let mother hear you talk like that." Then she darted to the table and picked up another candlestick. "Lay down your weapons, knight. The prince is mine."   
  
And so the battle begun.   
  
Constance had played this game with her little sister ever since Mirabelle was old enough to wield a sword. Even though it was only a candlestick and no real weapon. But what reality lacked the girls made up for with their imagination.   
  
In this game Constance was a brave knight come to save the fair prince from certain doom at the hands of the little demon. At first Constance had insisted that if her sister wanted to play the villain that she should at least be a witch or sorcerer, but Mirabelle had always preferred to impersonate a little hunched-over demon with leathery wings that were too small to fly. In the end Constance had let it go. They game was fun no matter who they pretended to be and it posed a welcome diversion to their duties which mostly consisted off studying and behaving properly within the narrow confines of society.   
  
The two girls were so caught up in their make-believe fight that they did not notice Theresa who was kneeling on the floor by the drawers folding the robes that Constance had so carelessly disposed of.. Mirabelle lunged forward, forcing Constance to step back and suddenly Constance and Theresa lay sprawled on the floor, while Mirabelle was shaking with laughter.   
  
Then the door was thrust open and a tall, blond woman with brown eyes, and a disapproving frown on her face, stepped into the room. "Honestly. The two of you are impossible." Isabeau narrowed her eyes at Mirabelle who was valiantly trying to repress the giggles, then frowned down at Canstance. "You are twenty years old and still behave like a child. You should set a good example for Mirabelle, not encourage her in these lunatic games."   
  
Theresa had scrambled to her feet and stood silently against the wall, while Constance was still sitting on the floor. Her good mood evaporated in the face of her sister's nagging. "Oh, cheer up, Isa."   
  
"I will not cheer up. The Commodore is waiting downstairs. You should have been in the sitting room minutes ago. Mother is already in such a state." Isabeau threw her hands up. She briefly surveyed the floor, then motioned to Theresa. "Would you please pick this up and find a suitable hat for my sister to wear."   
  
Theresa curtsied. "Of course, miss."   
  
"And you," Isabeau pointed at Mirabelle, "will wash your hair and then return to your studies. I'm sure Pamela is already waiting for you and the water will be cold by now."   
  
Mirabelle pouted. "But Pamela told me to go away. She was talking to a man down in the garden and said that she doesn't have time to wash my hair."   
  
"Well, then I will have to talk to father about this matter. Neglecting her duties… Oh I wish we had never left England."   
  
Mirabelle and Constance exchanges equally exasperated looks. While the two of them had been excited to travel across the ocean, Isabeau had been overcome with homesickness even before they had left their estate in Stafford Shire. She had spent most of the voyage below decks, miserable and doing her best to spread her melancholy among the family.   
  
Having inherited her mother's kind disposition, Mirabelle hurried towards her older sister to embrace her, while Constance tried to hide her annoyance in vain.   
  
"Oh don't be sad, Isabeau. It's so lovely here. I'm sure a walk through town will cheer you up."   
  
Constance snorted. "I'm sure it's going to be very cheerful with mother around. She won't stop nagging until one of us is engaged to that Commodore," she said disdainfully. "Isabeau, can't you just go down there and make him fall in love with you, so we can have our peace?"   
  
Isabeau looked scandalised. Mirabelle only giggled her arms still wrapped around her sister's waist.   
  
A knock on the door prevented Isabeau from retorting. Pamela, Mirabelle's maid, entered and curtsied. "Begging you pardon, Miss Isabeau, Miss Constance. I was looking for Miss Mirabelle. She is due to take her bath now." Then her gaze fell on the young girl who was frowning in displeasure. "There you are. I was looking all over for you."   
  
"Mirabelle told us you sent her away." Isabeau untangled herself from her youngest sister and held her by the shoulders so she could look into her eyes. "Have you been telling stories again?"   
  
"No, I haven't. She was talking to someone by the back gate."   
  
Pamela hastily stepped forward her hands folded in front of her. "Oh yes, Miss Isabeau. I was talking to one of the servants, but I promised Miss Mirabelle that I would be up in her room shortly and bid her to wait for me there."   
  
"No, you didn't." Mirabelle looked pleadingly up at her sister. "She told me to go away."   
  
Isabeau wearily rubbed her hand against her brow. "I'm sure you just misunderstood her, dear." She gently pushed her sister into the maid's direction. Now go take your bath and behave yourself."   
  
"But I..."   
  
Isabeau gazed at her sternly. "Go."   
  
Pouting, Mirabelle stomped out of the room in a very un-ladylike manner. She didn't spare Pamela a single glance.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Richard Travers swallowed heavily, his face white as a death mask. He nodded repeatedly then hurriedly stepped back from the barred up corpse, a gloved hand covering his nose.   
  
"It's him."   
  
Constable Meyerson covered James Deriks face's with a white cloth.   
  
"He was found at The Night Watch. It's a tavern down by the merchant docks." He shook his head in disgust. "Seedy place." At Traver's impertinent look he hastily added. "My apologies Mr. Travers, this must be a shock to you. Please accept my condolences."   
  
Travers dismissed his words with a wave of his hands. He was more concerned about the circumstances of his valet's death than the actual loss of the man. "Have you apprehended the murder?" he asked.   
  
Meyerson shook his head. "I'm afraid we did not. We were hoping you could give us some idea what Mr. Deriks was doing there," he said uncomfortably.   
  
Offended, Travers towered over the smaller man. "I brought well over a dozen servants with me from England. You can hardly expect me to keep track of all of them." He gestured towards the late Deriks. "Perhaps he could not bare to be away from England and tried to drown himself in liquor. What else could he have been doing in such a place?" There was a note of desperation in the last sentence, as if Travers was trying to convince himself rather than the Constable. "But surely you must have some idea who did this. A description perhaps?"   
  
Constable Meyerson shook his head. "You know how it is, Sir. Nobody has seen anything."   
  
Travers snorted. "Of course not."   
  
He exited and walked into the adjourning office, were Governor Swann was waiting.   
  
"I expect you to find this man, Constable." He said with a glance over his shoulder. "Such vermin needs to be brought to justice."   
  
Then he left without another word.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  



	6. Once Upon A Time

V - Once Upon A Time   
England, about thirty years ago.   
  
Richard pressed a handkerchief to his nose and inhaled through his mouth. The unbearably sweet stench of sickness hung thick in the air. Hesitantly, he stepped towards the bed, bracing himself. He knew he would see his father for the last time and he did not want it to be with an expression of disgust on his face. His mother motioned him forward, her nose and eyes red from crying.   
  
His father was dying. There was little chance that he would make it through the day and so, at twenty-one, Richard would become head of the family. He was prepared. At least for the professional part. His father had afforded him an excellent education and Richard felt confident that he could handle his father's business.   
  
It was the other part of this new life that made him uncomfortable. His father had always been a strict but kind man, and their relationship had been a close one. Richard had respected him. He had admired the surety with which Marius Travers had handled family and business matters alike, but now that it was his turn to take care of his mother and sisters, Richard felt a sense of ambiguity.   
  
He had spent most of his life in boarding schools or under his father's supervision. His contact to the female members of the Travers family had been very limited. They were strangers to him, and the thought that they would look to him for reassurance and guidance now was disconcerting.   
  
Richard had reached his father's deathbed. Even though it was late morning, the curtains had been drawn and only oil lamps illuminated the room. His mother, his sisters, the physician and one servant stood in silent vigil against the walls, affording the two men a small measure of privacy.   
  
The picture that presented itself to Richard was horrific. His father lay half hidden underneath the blankets as if already buried, his skin grey as ash, sweat covering his face. His lips were dry and broken and his breath came in short rasping bursts. His eyes were sunken into his skull, the pupils were dilated and had a slight yellow hue to them.   
  
*Opium.* Richard realised dimly.   
  
He carefully took his father's damp hand into his own, fearing that it would break beneath his touch.   
  
"Father…" he breathed quietly.   
  
Before Marius could say anything the door behind him opened again. Richard looked over his shoulder to see a young boy being ushered into the room by one of the servant maids. The boy's name was Robert.   
  
Robert was only eight years old and Richard had known him for most of that time and disliked for almost as long. For as long as Richard could remember his father had shown Robert a great deal of affection which the boy had returned in kind. What had irked Richard the most was to see that their bond seemed to have grown stronger every time he had returned from boarding school. Richard had never paid much attention to the child until Robert had reached the age of five. By then he was old enough to have the house in an uproar with his adventures, pranks and practical jokes. Envious of the freedom and attention Robert enjoyed, Richard had distanced himself from the boy, making him feel that he considered Robert to be beneath him.   
  
He was about to demand that Robert leave them alone when his father finally spoke.   
  
"Robert… my….my dear boy…Come," he whispered, the strain of speaking those few words evident in his face. He tried to lift himself to his elbows and Richard hastily held him up until Dr. Charlton, the physician, had stuffed enough pillows behind Marius Travers' back to support his weight.   
  
Robert had reached the bed by now but refused to take the outstretched hand that Marius offered to him. Richard wasn't entirely sure if he saw fear or disgust in the boy's eyes but chose to interpret it as the later.   
  
Marius' hand was still trembling in the air and Richard grasped it quickly.   
  
"Richard, there is something I must tell you," Marius said then choked and tried to cough, his whole body convulsing. Dr. Charlton quickly pressed Richard's father back into the pillows and made him drink a few sips of water until Marius had calmed down.   
  
"Richard…you must… you must promise me… to …to take care of Robert." Marius voice was barely audible and Richard had to lean forward to understand him.   
  
"Of course, father," the young man answered in bewilderment. Richard didn't particularly like Robert, but his mother, Edith, had been a trustworthy and capable servant in his father's house since before he had been born. He had no intention to show them the door now that he had the authority to do so.   
  
"No.. no" Marius voice faded even more. Richard bend lower and tilted his head." You don't understand. Richard… When Robert is old …old enough to be send to… school, promise me… that you will send him… send him…to..." Marius convulsed again.   
  
The old man's request was strange but considering his affection for the boy not entirely unexpected. Richard still fought the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, but nodded. He was not about to deny his father's last wish, though he could not repress the stirring of jealousy in his heart.   
  
"If you wish that he shall receive a proper education, then I will see to it, father."   
  
Marius shook his head with an expression of despair on his face. It seemed as if he knew his time was running out. "You still don't… but how could you?. I… I never told…never told anyone… not even your mother… until… until today."   
  
Richard turned towards the sound of repressed crying that came from his mother's direction. She had her head buried in her handkerchief and needed to be steadied by his sister. Suddenly Marius gripped his hand with unbelievable strength. Richard's head snapped back to his father.   
  
"What… I tell you now… must not leave this room, boy. Do you understand?" There was an intensity in his father's eyes that scared Richard.   
  
"Robert…Robert is your brother."   
  
Richard felt as if something had hit him very hard in the chest. He choked on the air in his lungs and a wave of dizziness swept over him. It was as if time had shuddered to a halt sending shock waves through his mind and body while he was trying to understand what his father had just told him.   
  
*That's not true,* was his first thought, and, just as suddenly as it had stopped, time had started moving again. *That's not true!* The denial echoed inside of him, gaining volume until it burst out from his mouth. "That's not true!" he choked out and stumbled backwards.   
  
His foot caught in one of the blankets and Richard fell. He scrambled back to his feet. "You're lying."   
  
Marius forced himself upright his hands stretched toward his son but the effort was too much. He crumbled in on himself, too weak to reply.   
  
Stunned, angry and confused, Richard looked first to his mother who looked upon his father with a coldness that he had never seen before, than to Edith whose eyes were wide with shock at this public admission. Finally Richard's gaze settled on Robert.   
  
One look was enough to make Richard's blood boil. *He knew. He knew all along.*   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
*This is going to be a complete waste of time,* Norrington thought as he stood at the top of a short staircase which connected two parallel streets of Fort Charles. The passage was small, with buildings leaning in on either side. It provided a suitable amount of cover from prying eyes, as well as an excellent vantage point to observe the entrance of _The Night Watch_.   
  
Commodore Norrington hesitantly stepped out of the growing shadows and cast a glance towards the sun which had almost reached the horizon on its inexorable descend. *What am I doing here?* he wondered, not for the first time since his feet had led him here.   
  
He had committed himself to accompany Mrs. Travers and her two eldest daughters on a shopping and sightseeing tour of Port Royale that afternoon. The tour had been pleasant for the most part, although he would have enjoyed the company much more if Mrs. Travers had not tried to parade her daughters in front of him in such a blatantly obvious manner.   
  
The two women had tried to hide their discomfort at their mother's tactics, but had failed to be completely successful; a fact which elevated Norrington's opinion of them considerably. While Constance had an overly excitable frame of character and had not yet grown into the mantle of maturity, Isabeau, the eldest, was a reserved, quiet, and sensible young women.   
  
After spending three hours in the various stores and shops that Port Royale had to offer, while keeping up polite conversation, the Commodore had invited them to a tour of the docks. He had desperately needed the change of scenery. And so they had started at the merchant docks which had been bursting with activity today due to the arrival of two traders from the Indies, two from England and one merchant vessel from the African colonies. Their conversation had rapidly turned from the woes and gossip of the high society to an account of the ladies passage from England. When they had reached the pier, where the Pierce and Kerrington were anchored the Commodore had been gently coaxed into recounting one or two tales of his own seafaring experience. Constance, who was four years younger than Isabeau, had seized the opportunity and requested to board the Pierce. Her mother had immediately objected and because rather than in spite of this, Norrington had allowed it.   
  
Constance, all exuberance and curiosity, had immediately darted across the deck, inspecting every nook and cranny while firing question at him. As she had hardly drawn breath in between her inquiries, Norrington had had little chance to answer them, but by then Mrs. Traver had already run after her.   
  
Isabeau had laughed then, and suddenly the melancholy that had surrounded her had vanished. She had been an engaging conversationalist from that moment on. They had left the Kerrington then, and had waited at the pier until Mrs. Travers and Constance had rejoined them.   
  
As planned, they had returned to the Governor's mansion, to have tea and biscuits, but when they had reached the estate, the place had already been in an uproar. Mr. Travers' valet had been found murdered at The Night Watch. And even though Mr. Travers had tried to hide his fear behind a mask of arrogance and righteous outrage, his feelings had been to obviously displayed in the paleness of his face and the agitation in his movements.   
  
The Commodore could not say what had brought him here. "No one had seen anything," Travers had lamented. Norrington was not surprised. The Night Watch lived off the duplicitous characters it served and as long as they paid with solid coins their anonymity was ensured.   
  
If he sat foot into the tavern, the odds to come back out alive were decidedly against him. The uniform and rank of a Commodore would give him little protection. It would rather serve as a target. There was no chance that he would get any information out of the patrons or the serving staff. He knew all this; had known it before he had come here. And yet, something had drawn him to this place. There was a quiet but insistent nagging at the back of his mind that he had not been able to ignore.   
  
He was sure that James Deriks' death had something to do with the map. Mr. Travers had undoubtedly come to the same conclusion.   
  
With determination Norrington left his position atop the staircase and ventured closer to the Tavern. He had to get more information. He rarely trusted his instinct, except when locked in battle, but now he felt compelled to follow the feeling in his gut rather than reason. There was no logic in coming here alone, just before nightfall. If he had stormed the place with a whole squadron, had arrested everyone in sight and had threatened them with death or worse, then maybe…   
  
Norrington took a deep breath to clear his head. It was no use. He was here. He would do what he had come to do. And he would not leave until he had answers.   
  
Carefully, he approached the tavern and descended the stairs. The room was brightly lit, but the windows were too filthy to see inside. He could hear music and laughter, shouted orders and other noises drifting onto the streets. His hand reached for the door when a high-pitched whisper halted his movements.   
  
"You really shouldn't go in there, you know. They'll slit your throat."   
  
There was a young man in his late teens looking down at him from the corner of tavern. He frowned, as if puzzled at the Commodore's presence but he did not look uncomfortable. His hands were stuffed in his trouser pockets, and his sand coloured hair was so long that it fell past his forehead into his eyes.   
  
The Commodore withdrew his hand and gave the boy a wry smile.   
  
"And who are you, that you are trying to save me?"   
  
The boy snorted. "I'm not trying to save you. Just want to bargain with you."   
  
Raising an eyebrow in surprise, the Commodore backed up the stairs. "And what would this bargain be about?" he questioned cautiously.   
  
"Not here." The boy looked over his shoulder and gestured for Norrington to follow him. He disappeared around the corner, down a dark alley, without waiting for the Commodore to follow.   
  
Norrington hesitated. It could be a trap. He estimated that about half a dozen grown men could be waiting for him in the shadows but he quickly realised that it was a gamble he had to take.   
  
"What are you waiting for? A written invitation?" the boy whispered.   
  
His lips pressed into a tight line, his hand on the hilt of his sword, Norrington entered the alley. His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the scarce light but after a few seconds he saw the boy standing not two paces from him by the tavern's wall.   
  
"Who are you?" Norrington repeated his earlier question.   
  
"My name is Thomas. I work as a kitchen boy in _The Night Watch_."   
  
With sudden interest, Norrington stepped forward. "So you where there yesterday?"   
  
Thomas nodded. "I saw who was talking to the man who got killed," he hesitated, as if uncertain. "That is why you are here, isn't it?"   
  
Norrington leaned back and surveyed the alley. They were indeed alone. His gaze travelled back to the boy. "And what if it is?"   
  
"I can give you a description," Thomas said eagerly. "For ten shillings. I'll tell you everything I know."   
  
"Ten shillings? That's outrageous."   
  
"That's the price." The boy's voice was steady, his tone stubborn.   
  
"And I only have your word that what you say is true. Did you see the murder?"   
  
Thomas shifted uncomfortable. "No, I was down in the cellar when it happened." At seeing the Commodore's derogatory smirk he added defiantly, "but he was only talking to that one man. It couldn't have been anyone else."   
  
Norrington bobbed lightly on his heals. "So you didn't see it happen. It might just be that the man Deriks was talking to left, and someone else came by and killed him while you were in the cellar." He shook his head. "You're not getting ten shillings from me for that."   
  
"Then I won't tell you anything." Thomas countered.   
  
"I could throw you into the brig for obstruction of justice." Norrington considered out loud.   
  
The boy immediately backed away. "You'd have to catch me first. And I know my way around here better than you do."   
  
The Commodore considered this and had to admit that Thomas was right. "Alright, Thomas. I'll give you two shillings for that description."   
  
"Eight."   
  
"Three."   
  
"Five."   
  
"Four. And your promise that you won't repeat it to anyone else and that you keep my presence here a secret."   
  
Thomas eyed him wearily.   
  
"Do we have an accord?"   
  
Thomas grasped the Commodore's outstretched hand and shook it.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  



	7. Letters From Home

VI - Letters from Home   


Commodore Norrington stood quietly in his bedroom and gazed out the window, while Matthias relieved him of his jacket.   
  
"Four shillings," he muttered.   
  
Matthias looked at him askance. "Begging you pardon, Sir."   
  
Norrington frowned. "I just paid four shillings for the description of a man, which could not be more fantastical if Elizabeth had though it up." His expression turned even more grim when he realised to whom he had just referred. "Utter lunacy," he added.   
  
"And was this description helpful?" Matthias inquired.   
  
"Not at all. An old man covered in tattoos, with an eye patch and a hideous scar. No one, who is about to commit murder in a public place, would allow himself to be that recognisable."   
  
Matthias nodded thoughtfully. "It was a disguise then?"   
  
"I am certain of it."   
  
"I am sure the murderer will be apprehended, Sir." The valet meticulously placed wig and tricorn on the wardrobe.   
  
Norrington forced a grateful smile. "Thank you, Matthias."   
  
Matthias had been in the Commodore's employ for the last nine years. He had been one of his father's footman for five years before then. When Norrington had brought news of his deployment to the Caribbean home, his father had insisted to give him free choice in the servants he wanted to take with him, so he would have a small reminder of the comforts of home.   
  
Aside from Matthias, who had readily agreed to accompany him, Norrington had chosen, Matthias' wife, Pauline, who was an excellent cook, their daughters Sarah and Mildred who kept the house in order, as well as their son Michael, who served as butler.   
  
Over time, Matthias had become a confidant. It was a relationship of which his father would have never approved. Lord Christopher had always been very distant with his own servants. The Commodore's older brother, Benjamin, used to joke that he treated them as if they were members of the family.   
  
Matthias bowed and asked whether he required anything else.   
  
The Commodore straightened and turned towards his valet. "No, thank you. You may retire for the night."   
  
"A few letters arrived for you earlier today. Sarah placed them on your desk."   
  
Norrington nodded in acknowledgement and Matthias departed.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
There was a hallway. A think carpet underneath bare feet. And at the end of the corridor… a door… unlocked. The door opened and a shadow entered, barely visible in the darkness. Soft footsteps fell across the room, past the desk, the two chairs that stood in front of it, towards the fireplace. A hand came to rest on the mantelpiece. It ran smoothly along the marble on the underside until it reached a barely perceptible dent in the perfect surface. Light pressure was applied, and with a soft swishing noise a small rectangle, barely big enough to admit the hand of a grown man, opened directly above the mantelpiece.   
  
A chair was quietly moved towards the fire place and small feet climbed upstairs. A hand reached inside the hidden compartment and extracted a velvet satchel which was opened quickly and turned upside down. A heavy signet ring and two jewels, both the size of pigeon eggs, fell into cold hands, which quickly closed around them.   
  
There was a sudden flash and the image changed.   
  
It was raining. Thunder cracked through the night sky and unbearable cold invaded skin and bone as the shadow stood in front of a gate. It was furnished of solid iron, tipped with arrowheads and a crest had been wrought into the middle portion, so skilled that the seam was hardly visible.   
  
Home lay beyond those gates. And a future. A hand reached through the poring sheets of water. There was another flash, this time unmistakably lightning, and the gate disappeared.   
  
"Captain?… Captain?"   
  
The figure on the deck of the Pinaforte turned around.   
  
Bathed in the light of the lamp he held aloft stood a young man with short brown hair. His face expressed worry and concern, as if he had called for his Captain's attention several times before receiving any acknowledgement.   
  
"What is it, Mr. Brown?"   
  
"Miss Geraldine is here to see you"   
  
The young servant girl stood behind the second mate, hooded in a long cloke. She hurriedly stepped forward.   
  
"We have to change our plans," Geraldine said without preamble.   
  
The captain dismissed Mr. Brown with a curt nod. "What happened?"   
  
Geraldine stepped closer and lowered her voice, so no one would overhear their conversation. "Mr. Travers keeps the map with him at all times. And now that his valet was murdered, he has become even more paranoid. He won't leave the house anymore and insists that guards be posted around the estate. The Governor tried to talk some sense into him, but he won't listen. The Commodore is not at all pleased that he had to assign a full score of his men to additional guard duty."   
  
"I heard about the murder."   
  
"Do you think…"   
  
The captain shrugged. "I don't know. It would be too much of a coincidence if the Bulldog didn't have something to do with it. On the other hand, why would he risk the attention?"   
  
"Because no one knows that he is here."   
  
"But they will suspect that it has something to do with the map. Travers had the Commodore take a look at it. The man is no fool, he identified the markings of the Moon Tide. I'm sure that his curiosity was roused as well."   
  
Geraldine looked puzzled. "How do you know that?"   
  
A wry smile appeared on the Captain's lips. "Mr. Brown was spying at the window."   
  
Before Geraldine, whose eyes had grown round as saucers, could grow more agitated, the Captain added. "No one saw him. Don't worry."   
  
The statement didn't seem to calm Geraldine at all, but she didn't say anything on the subject. Instead she brought the conversation back to the map and their plan to steal it.   
  
"Some good has come of all this, though. The Governor insisted that Mr. Travers leave the map in his safe during the ball. He said that with so many people around, no one would dare to break in and steal it."   
  
"So the map will be in the library after all."   
  
"Yes, but only for that one evening. Mrs. Travers was most reluctant to agree. But Governor Swann was firm. I think he had quiet enough of Mr. Travers secrecy. "   
  
"Then I will steal it, Geraldine. You have already done enough. I will not endanger you. Though it would still be helpful to know where exactly the safe was hidden and how I can access it. I won't have much time once I'm inside the mansion."   
  
Geraldine looked positively smug. "Oh, I already know that."   
  
A bemused gaze from underneath raised eyebrows fell on her.   
  
"I asked Miranda."   
  
The was a short bark of laughter. "And she simply told you?"   
  
"We servants must stick together." Geraldine said not without pride then she smiled mischievously. "And she can't really keep a secret to save her life. Not if you know how to play her."   
  
There was a moment of silence, until Geraldine finally conceded. "I got her drunk. And I was rather surprised to learn just how much she knows about that library."   
  
"Well, you've certainly turned into quiet the savy spy." The Captain sounded amused, but there was respect underlying the statement.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
It was an hour later when Geraldine left the Pinaforte and hurried back to the mansion. She did not pause to look left or right. Her gaze was turned towards the lights of Fort Charles as she hurried over the cobblestones. But even if she had paid closer attention to her surroundings she would not have seen the figure which crouched not far from the landing pier.   
  
Water was dripping from soaked clothes as a shadow moved quietly away from the docks, his gaze still on the servant girl. "Interesting," Jack Sparrow said. "Very interesting."   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Finally free of the constrains of uniform and wig, Norrington untied his hair and let it fall to his shoulders.   
  
He walked across his study and poured himself a glass of wine before he settled in the comfortable armchair near the fireplace. He had taken the letters from his desk and placed them on the small serving table which stood next to him. The first was from his sister, Bethany, the other one was from Nigel, a long-time friend he had known since his first days at the academy.   
  
With a content sigh, Norrington leaned backwards and sipped his drink. His fingers wandered over the envelopes until he finally decided to read Nigel's letter first.   
  
_ Dear James,   
  
News of your promotion have finally reached England. Allow me to congratulate you and to offer my best wishes. I confess that I am not surprised at your achievements. Your reputation has spread back to your homeland and hardly a week passes when I am not asked how you fare.   
  
I am proud to tell you, that we have not been idle over here either. Just last week we apprehended one of Africa's most notorious pirates. Captain Gareth himself ran into our nets. He was badly wounded when we found him and his ship adrift in the canal. At first we thought he had finally taken on the wrong merchant vessel, but no reports of a scrimmage were brought to us from the shipping companies. Admiral Townsend believes another pirate got the better of him, though strangely enough we have not had any pirate activity for over a week. It appears that we finally scared them away.   
  
As always, Father and Magaret send their regards. She recently talked him into attending an auction in London. He bought her a locket to which the auctioneer swears that it originated in the Caribbean. Father doubts it, but you know Margaret. She is still as willful as ever. Just last week she…._   
  
And so he went on for some time, describing his daughter's antics, the latest news from home, the political situation, and facts about friends and family.   
  
As always, Nigel's letter greatly improved the Commodore's mood, and by the time he had finished reading it, he found himself relaxed, his mind occupied with fond memories. His glass was empty and although he rarely followed up on the wine with a second drink, after today's events, he permitted himself another two finger's breath of the warming beverage. He let the liquid linger on his tongue, savouring the fruity taste, before he swallowed it.   
  
Then, with a familiar feeling of trepidation, he reached for his sister's letter.   
  
He had never had a close relationship with Bethany. Just as Governor Swann, she displayed an irritating obliviousness to ill-will around her, but unlike the Governor it was not a façade. She was cheerful to a default and tried so hard to please everyone around her, that she usually ended up alienating them. She dismissed gentle criticism and well meant advise with equal ignorance and was altogether impractical. She was, however, of a kind nature, helpful and intelligent, which had saved her from social disgrace. Norrington had not seen her since he had been assigned to Port Royal, nine years ago. She wrote him usually once a month and filled her letters with the same inane subjects that had dominated her conversations at home.   
  
Sitting up straight, Norrington pulled the letter from the envelope and unfolded it.   
  
_ Dearest Brother,   
  
So much has happened in the last few days that I hardly know where to begin. Your brother is quiet busy keeping matters in order and so the sad duty to inform you of these tragic events falls upon me.   
  
You have always proven yourself to prefer the truth spoken straightforward instead of hidden behind meaningless platitudes. Therefore I hope you will not mistake my frankness for unkindness.   
  
Our beloved father is dead.   
  
He died two nights ago after a riding accident. Triton refused at the fence, down by the old mill, and father fell into the riverbed. He hit his head quiet severely at the sharp rocks. He was unconscious when Benjamin and the riding party brought him home. Of course, we summoned a physician immediately, but even our capable Dr. Milrow could not prevent this tragedy.   
  
I am so sorry, James. By the time this letter reaches you, we will have laid him to rest. As was his last wish he shall be buried beside our dear mother in London. Benjamin has prepared everything and we will leave for the funeral tomorrow morning.   
  
I am certain that Benjamin will discuss any further developments with you once all arrangements have been taken care of. We are all overcome with grief and you are dearly missed.   
  
Notifications of the funeral have to be send out and thus I must be brief. And even though this is hardly the appropriate time I do wish to congratulate you on your promotion. It brings our family much needed joy in these dark days.   
  
Yours,  
Bethany _  
  
Norrington sat in shocked silence for several minutes. The letter slipped from his suddenly numb fingers and drifted unnoticed to the floor. Abruptly, he stood, only to realise that there was nowhere for him to go. A strange kind of apathy had overcome him, leaving no room for grief, anger or sadness.   
  
James picked up the letter and read it again while he paced in front of the fireplace. Then his fist curled around the paper and he fell back into his chair. The air felt hot on his face and he opened the upper buttons of his shirt.   
  
Once the initial shock had passed, Norrington came back to his senses. Yet, the sense of loss he felt was not as painful as he had expected it to be.   
  
He had respected his father, had tried to live up to the standards he had sat, and believed to have succeeded in this endeavour. Christopher Norrington had been a distant man, regal and just. A man who always cared about his family and friends first. He had not been very approachable, but always unimpeachable in his unwavering loyalty and dignity.   
  
James had admired these qualities and had aspired to become just as respected and righteous as his father. He felt it was an affront to his memory that he could not summon the emotions to feel grief for his death. Guilt dispelled the indifference, and he tried to convince himself that he was simply numb because of the unexpected passing.   
  
A knock at the door pulled Norrington from his musings. Michael, Matthias' son, entered.   
  
"Please forgive the late intrusion, Sir. Lieutenant Gillette is here to see you."   
  
The Commodore needed a moment to collect himself. "Yes, of course. Send him in."   
  
Lieutenant Gillette entered, his hands fumbling with his hat, a sure sign that the young officer was nervous. "Commodore." He greeted Norrington. "Please forgive the lateness of my visit but I…" he stopped talking and narrowed his eyes. "Sir, are you all right?"   
  
It took a moment until the words registered in Norrington's mind. For some reason it was difficult to concentrate.   
  
"I'm exceedingly well. Thank you," he said, but the words sounded hollow, even to him. Then he realised that he did not cut the most composed figure, with his hair falling loosely over his back, with the top two buttons of his shirt undone and a piece of paper twisted in his fist.   
  
One look at the disbelieving expression on Gillette's face confirmed his assessment.   
  
"I…" he cleared his throat. "I received a letter from my sister today," Norrington started hesitantly. He expected Gillette to inquire after his family, but the young man merely waited patiently for him to continue. "My father… died… It was a riding accident."   
  
As always, Gillette wore his feelings on his sleeves and Norrington could see surprise, compassion, and concern wash over the Lieutenant's face in quick succession. "I am very sorry to hear that, Sir," he said politely.   
  
Norrington had the distinct impression that Gillette wanted to say more, but restrained himself, for which the Commodore was grateful.   
  
He finally put the letter back on the table and smoothed it down. Then he straightened and faced his Lieutenant again. "What brings you here, then?"   
  
Gillette pulled an envelope from his uniform jacket and handed it to the Commodore. "As you requested, I brought those maps to the Governor's house today. He was about to have the invitations for tomorrow's ball send out. He told me that you had already received yours when you met Mrs. Travers and her daughters. But it must have slipped from your pockets because the Governor's butler found it on the floor by the entrance. I took the liberty to return it to you."   
  
Norrington stared at the invitation for a long moment. He was not sure whether he should be amused or angry.   
  
"You might be a fine officer Gillette, but you are a rotten liar."   
  
The lieutenant flushed guiltily.   
  
"Why are you really here?"   
  
Gillette shifted from one foot to the other. The Commodore observed with interest that the young man in front of him appeared unsure of himself. It was a side of the Lieutenant that he had never seen before.   
  
Finally, Gillette seemed to come to a decision. "It is no matter of importance, Sir. I feel, given the tragic news that you received today, that it would be impudent of me to address it."   
  
"Nonsense." Norrington dismissed the Lieutenants concerns with a wave of his hand.   
  
Gillette twisted his hat, though he never broke eye contact. It was obvious that he wished to leave, which roused the Commodore's curiosity.   
  
"Speak up, man," he demanded.   
  
Startled at the Commodore's tone, Gillette stood a little straighter.   
  
"I came here…" he started, then rephrased. "I was concerned."   
  
"Concerned?" Norrington repeated, trying not to show his displeasure.   
  
"Yes, Sir." Lieutenant Gillette had found his confidence again. "I know that you do not wish that anyone intrude upon your privacy, Sir. But, ever since the Miss Swann's wedding, you seem withdrawn and somewhat melancholy, if you permit me to say so. And I was merely wondering if there is anything I could…"   
  
"Lieutenant Gillette!"   
  
Norrington had not even raised his voice, yet the Lieutenant stood immediately at attention.   
  
"I believed that I had made myself quiet clear that my personal affairs, as well as my well-being, are of absolutely no concern to you."   
  
"Yes, Sir."   
  
"I will ask you one last time to stay out of matters that are none of your business or I will be forced to take actions. Is that understood, Lieutenant?"   
  
"Aye, aye, Sir." Gillette stood rigid, his gaze cast straight ahead.   
  
Trying to restrain the sudden burst of anger he felt at the younger man's impertinence, he approached the Lieutenant and stared him down.   
  
"You are dismissed," he finally ground out.   
  
Gillette snapped his heals together, barked on last 'Aye, aye, Sir.' and retreated.   
  
Norrington suddenly felt drained. He closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness swept over him.   
  
*Too harsh, James. He was only trying to express his concern.* he thought. Then the anger was back. *He should have respected my wishes and left me alone.*   
  
*Yes, but do I really want to be alone?* he suddenly wondered. He sank back into the armchair and stared at the flames in the fireplace.   
  
The navy was his life. His duties consumed all of his time and energy, but until today that had never bothered him. He loved the sea, loved to stand on the Dauntless' quarter deck and see nothing but a carpet of endless blue stretching out before him. Protecting Port Royale gave his life purpose and meaning. He had achieved so much, had see so many wonders, both terrible and beautiful.   
  
He had built himself a life here. But it was an empty life without friendship or love. His men respected him but he had never allowed anyone to breach that invisible barrier of command that surrounded his position. Not even when he had been a Lieutenant. As Commodore he was responsible for the men under his command and he had seen too many of them die. Blown to pieces by canon balls, shot by muskets or cut down by sabres.   
  
They were his responsibility, and it was no use forming friendships when one more pirate attack could end his or their lives. Though he had to admit, that, even if they weren't his subordinates, it would make little difference. Allowing people to get too close to him was just not in his nature.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  



	8. The Ball

VII - The Ball   
A ball at the Governor's estate was always an event that no one of Port Royale's gentry would miss. Compared with the guest list of London's society, the event was very small and, in the spirit of 'The more, the merrier', it was not uncommon for Governor Swann to invite the wealthy and respectable merchants of Port Royale as well. As expected, the gathering was now large enough to fill the ballroom and the dinner table, and both parties mingled, unabashed of their social differences.   
  
The halls and corridors where brightly lit, the best silverware and porcelain was shown off at the dinner table and a string quintet fought to be heard over the acoustical layers of conversation.   
  
Commodore Norrington stood off to one side of the dance floor, decked out in his ceremonial uniform, his hands clasped behind his back. Next to him, a young lady tried unsuccessfully to engage him in conversation.   
  
"Oh, it must have been dreadful, Commodore." She cooed and playfully hit his arm with her closed fan.   
  
The light slap brought Norrington's wavering attention back to her. He stared down at Miss Harlington's face with polite curiosity while he feverishly tried to remember what they had been talking about.   
  
"Quiet so, Miss Harpington," he finally commented, his thoughts still not entirely focused.   
  
The smile on her face faltered. She blushed in embarrassment. "My apologies, Commodore, I did not mean to bore you." She curtsied quickly and excused herself.   
  
Puzzled, Norrington was about to call after her, but a soft chuckle behind him made him turn around instead. Lieutenant Groves was looking at him, trying to compose himself.   
  
"Is there something you find amusing, Lieutenant?"   
  
"With all due respect, Sir, even if the lady's company is not to your liking it would be polite to correctly remember her name."   
  
Now it was the Commodore's turn to blush. Too embarrassed to come up with a suitable reply, he nodded curtly at the younger officer, turned back towards the dance floor and found himself face to face with another young lady. Though her face looked familiar, he had to admit that this time he did not remember her name at all. Nevertheless, he forced himself to pay closer attention to the conversation and even succeeded for a whole five minutes before his mind started to drift again.   
  
He felt out of place. He had never been comfortable to attend balls or social gatherings of any kind, but today was even worse than usual.   
  
His father was dead.   
  
After Lieutenant Gillette had left the night before, Norrington had stared for hours into the fireplace until the flames had died down to glowing embers. And even now, twenty-four hours later, he still had not wrapped his mind around that one simple fact. His father was dead.   
  
His gaze wandered through the crowd. Laughing, talking, dancing people. It just did not feel right. They should be mourning. There should be a thunderstorm raging outside, matched, in pure, brute force, with the thunderstorm inside his chest. People should be dressed in black instead of the bright, vibrant colours they displayed tonight. The world should have stopped turning, even if just for one second, to acknowledge the profound loss of this one man. But nothing happened. The world, and the people in it, simply moved on, unaware of his father's passing, and Norrington stood lost in the Governor's ballroom, surrounded by over a hundred people yet apart from all of them.   
  
He realised that the lady next to him, Valentina Moor, he finally remembered, was waiting for an acknowledgement of some kind. He chose to nod in agreement, hoping that the gesture was fitting the conversation. Apparently it did, because the young woman smiled and immediately started chatting again. Norrington concentrated on the music for a while, hoping that it would dissipate the bleakness in his heart, but it proved to be in vain. He saw Isabeau and Constance Travers dancing and almost regretted that he had avoided them all evening. He turned his head slightly and looked towards the open door that led to the terrace and the gardens beyond. His gaze was caught by another young woman who was openly starring at him.   
  
She was dressed in a light green and yellow corseted dress. Her auburn hair was stylishly piled on top of her head and she looked at him with an expression of open amusement. She was pretty, though by far not as beautiful as Elizabeth.   
  
Immediately, Norrington reprimanded himself for measuring her against the Governor's daughter. But he had been too infatuated with Elizabeth, for far too long, to completely ban her from his thoughts.   
  
Given his current state of mind, it did not surprise him that he did not recall the woman's name, but the fact that he could not remember her face either gave him pause. The lady was still looking at him and suddenly nodded rather pointedly to his side where Miss Moor was waiting for him to answer a question. Then she laughed and averted her eyes. Miss Mandel had approached her, and soon they were involved in avid conversation. Belatedly, Commodore Norrington realised that she had tried to warn him and he hastily turned back to Valentina Moor.   
  
The expression on her face could have frozen the entire Caribbean sea. Without a word, she turned around and disappeared, leaving the Commodore feeling utterly miserable with guilt.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Mrs. Travers was passing from the dinning room into the ball room when Pamela, her youngest daughter's maid, approached her.   
  
"My lady, I believe Miss Mirabelle might be ill."   
  
Mrs. Travers looked down at the servant girl in alarm.   
  
"Are you sure?"   
  
Pamela nervously twisted the material of her skirt with her hands. "I don't know ma'am. She won't stop crying."   
  
Mrs. Travers hurried into the foyer and up the staircase. "Didn't she say anything? Is she hurt?"   
  
Pamela hurried after her. "She won't say, ma'am. She just keeps crying. I tried to talk to her but she doesn't answer."   
  
They had reached the first floor and Mrs. Travers ran past the library, around the corner, towards the quest rooms.   
  
Suddenly Pamela grasped a small metallic statue off a glass cabinet and hit Mrs. Travers with all her strength. The woman immediately crumbled to the floor, no sound coming from her lips.   
  
Shacking, Pamela bent over her and checked her breathing. It was faint but steady. The maid hurriedly opened the door of a maintenance closet. It took considerable time and effort to pull Mrs. Travers into the small space. Ten minutes later the task had been accomplished. With a careful look to either end of the corridor, Pamela emerged from the closet, closed the door and headed towards Mirabelle's room, as if nothing had happened.   
  
"Good evening, Miss," she whispered into the dark bed room as she entered. "I just wanted to see if you are comfortable."   
  
No answer was forthcoming and Pamela listened to the sound of deep, regular breathing for a few minutes before she approached the bed. Mirabelle was sleeping soundly, which was surprising considering the racket she had made only a few hours earlier. She had been very displeased that her mother had forbidden her to attend the ball.   
  
Pamela quietly opened the floor length windows, which led to a small balcony. Then she left, locking the door behind her.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
In the meantime Miss Mandel and Miss Constance Travers had joined the Commodore. While Constance was a welcome sight, Miss Mandel was not. She was well know for her skills as a incessant conversationalist and she currently displayed them to agonising perfection   
  
Constance seemed amused, but tried to hide it, as she listened to the woman rambling on from one subject to the next with the undaunted speed of a canon ball. Norrington tried his best to be polite, though he felt that he was going to start screaming fairly soon.   
  
Fortunately, Lieutenant Gillette approached at this moment, his attention completely captivated by Constance. Dutifully, Norrington introduced them. The two of them immediately struck up a conversation of their own, making the Commodore and Miss Mandel, who had actually managed to cease talking for a moment, feel quiet superfluous. Soon Gillette asked the young lady to dance with him, to which she readily agreed.   
  
As Norrington smiled wistfully at the pair, Miss Mandel picked up a glass of wine from one of the passing servants and continued her one-sided conversation. Now that they were alone her behaviour changed, subtly at first than rather obviously. She invaded his personal space, found excuses to touch his arm or, as Miss Harlington had done, slap his chest with her fan.   
  
Growing steadily more uncomfortable, Commodore Norrington backed up one step at a time, since it would have been rather inappropriate to address the lady on concern of her actions. Ten minutes later his back collided with the mantelpiece of a fire place.   
  
Deciding that he had had quiet enough, Norrington attempted to excuse himself, but rescue came in form of the young woman who had been so amused at his predicament earlier. She approached, her gaze seemingly occupied with the minuet on the dance floor. Suddenly, she stumbled and fell right against Miss Mandel, who spilled her wine over the front of her dress.   
  
"Oh my god. I am so sorry." The unknown woman had her hands pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. "I am so clumsy." She tried to dab at the stains with her handkerchief, a string of apologies flying from her mouth. She appeared so inconsolable, that Norrington almost believed that it had really been an unfortunate accident. Almost.   
  
The stunned Miss Mandle seemed to finally recover and stammered not very eloquently.   
  
"Look, what you have done."   
  
Suddenly, her head snapped up and she glared at the offender. Miss Mandle slapped the woman's hand away and ran off in a huff. The scene had drawn quiet a bit of attention, but the Commodore could not be sure if the stranger's blush could be attributed to true discomfort or good acting.   
  
Although he felt some gratefulness to be free of Miss Mandel's clutches, and it was impolite to accuse a lady of such deviousness, he felt no restrains to confront her.   
  
"You did that on purpose," he said quietly, so no one could overhear.   
  
The woman glanced up at him and laughed unabashed. "I could not see you suffer a moment longer."   
  
The statement took him aback. He wrecked his mind for a reply, but heedlessly she continued.   
  
"Now, if you'll excuse me, Captain. I believe it would be best to depart as long as I have some dignity left."   
  
She had already moved half way around him, when she suddenly stopped. Norrington followed her gaze and saw Miss Mandel's mother approach from across the room, her face tight with anger.   
  
The young woman moved backwards and looked for an escape route, when Norrington decided that it was only fair to return the favour. "Would you dance with me?" he asked, his hand already reaching for hers.   
  
"Dance?" She looked at him with wide eyes. "I can't dance."   
  
Norrington raised his eyebrows.   
  
"I mean… I had lessons, but my instructor told me that teaching me was a rather hopeless endeavour. I believe it was the only time we agreed on anything." The last sentence was added quietly, almost as if she was talking to herself.   
  
"I'm sure whatever knowledge you retain of your lessons will be sufficient," he tried to assure her and gently pulled at her arm.   
  
Suddenly there was a very cautious, almost cold look in her eyes and she broke free of his hand.   
  
She glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Mandel and seemed to come to the conclusion that she would not be able to escape to the gardens or the dinning room in time. With a frown she looked back up at Norrington and nodded. "Very well, then."   
  
They speedily crossed the floor and took their places among the other dancers. The minuet started out with the women and men standing in two lines opposite each other. At the start of the music both lines moved forward.   
  
The men took the women's hands, then both parties spun in a half circle and stepped back again. Norrington could have followed the steps with closed eyes. He had gained enough practise during events like these, both in England and the Caribbean, and so he used the time to study the woman next to him. She, on the other hand, was completely focused on the women around her and tried to mimic their steps. Norrington could see that she must have had lessons at one point, though she moved as if she had never put them to further use. It was most unusual and Norrington spent several minutes trying to figure out why.   
  
After several turns and a variety of combinations, they followed couples past a row of men on the left and women on the right side. Norrington used the opportunity to ask a few questions.   
  
"May I ask your name?"   
  
The woman's gaze snapped up to his face. She managed a smile. "My apologies, Captain. I forgot my manners. My name is Cassandra Browden. "   
  
Norrington was surprised that she had addressed him wrong twice and concluded that she had not been in Port Royale long. He smiled indulgently.   
  
"It's Commodore, actually. Commodore James Norrington, at you service."   
  
When Miss Browden stumbled this time, it was not on purpose.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Mirabelle blinked into the darkness. She did not know what had woken her and so she lay still for a moment. She could hear music drifting through the open window. The heavy curtains billowed in a light breeze.   
  
Mirabelle sat up. She rubbed her hands over her face and blinked sleepily towards the open balcony. Wasn't there a shadow there? She felt fear creeping up her spine.   
  
Taking a deep breath she called out: "Is anybody there?"   
  
There was no answer and Mirabelle chided herself for being frightened so easily. Muttering softly under her breath she put her head back on the pillow, when suddenly a hand pressed down on her mouth.   
  
She tried to scream, her heart beating like a wild thing in her chest. Fear paralysed her for a second. She was lifted effortlessly into strong arms. In her desperation she bit into the hand on her face which was pulled back immediately. There was someone cursing behind her, but Mirabelle paid no attention. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to scream.   
  
A sharp slap across her face made her fall to the ground. The pain brought tears to her eyes and through the blur she could see another man jumping into the room. She was held down and cloth was pressed into her mouth, making it hard to breath. She struggled and kicked her short legs into the air, desperate to hit something, but the men were too strong.   
  
Before she knew it, they had carried her to the balcony and throw her over the balustrade. Someone caught her and she was roughly thrown over a man's shoulder. The tears had dried on the girl's face. She was to terrified to cry. She was handed over the wall that separated the Governor's estate from the street and soon saw the mansion's lights receding in the distance.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
"Are you all right?" The Commodore asked.   
  
He had caught Miss Browden before she could hit the floor.   
  
Immediately, she pushed away from him, her face pale. She took a deep breath and composed herself.   
  
"My apologies, Commodore. I believe I am a little dizzy." She laughed unsteadily.   
  
Aware that they had draw the attention of the entire room again, Norrington suggested that they step outside for a moment. Miss Browden agreed, although she was hesitant enough to make him realise that she would rather not spent any more time in his company.   
  
Trying not to frown, Norrington offered his arm, and they walked through the gossiping guests. He could hear them whisper, and although they kept their voiced too low from him to decipher words, he knew that he and Miss Browden where the subjects of their conversation.   
  
Miss Browden must have realised this as well. She straightened considerably and held her chin high, as they passed through the crowd.   
  
On the balcony, she let go of his arm and turned to face him. "I owe you an apology, Commodore."   
  
Noringon raised his eyebrows and clasped his hands behind his back. The expression on her face was cold and guarded, and he matched it with one of his own.   
  
"I did not meant to be disrespectful. I merely expected someone of your rank to be a great deal older than you are."   
  
Norrington inhaled slowly. He had expected an explanation for her behaviour, rather than an apology for addressing him wrong.   
  
"That's quiet all right." He said formally. "On occasions as these , I am accustomed to be surrounded by ignorance," he could not resist to add, be it because of the recent news of his father's death, or a sudden whim born of exhaustion at the falseness around him.   
  
Cassandra Browden's brown eyes shone almost black with anger. She curtsied awkwardly. "Then it would be best not to strain your patience any longer, Commodore." And she was gone.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  



	9. A Meeting Of Old Friends

VIII - A Meeting Of Old Friends   
Constance laughed. "Oh, your father must have scolded you terribly."   
  
"He didn't. I escaped through the vine cellar before he came in. He never found out who did it." Lieutenant Gillette joined in the laughter.   
  
"He must have suspected you."   
  
Gillette nodded. "I am sure he did."   
  
Still chuckling, they walked along the outer edge of the dance floor.   
  
"Where did you grow up, Lieutenant?"   
  
"In a small village near La Rochelle. My father always preferred the wide expanse of our vin yards to the confines of the French court. It grieved him to leave our home for England. He was not very happy when I told him that I intended to the join the Navy."   
  
The Lieutenant's smile faltered for a moment.   
  
"It must have been difficult for you as well." Constance said. "Being half Irish and half French, I mean.   
  
Gillette smiled wistfully. "It was." He took a deep breath and then a large smile spread over his face. "But it was worth it."   
  
Constance laughed at his obvious contentment. "You speak just like the sailors on the Seerose. They were all madly in love with the sea. They even preferred storms, thunder and lightning to setting a foot on shore."   
  
Gillette winked at her. "That's mostly false bravado, my lady. Every sailor fears a storm." He laughed. "But it is rather exhilarating," he admitted.   
  
Isabeau's arrival interrupted the conversation.   
  
Constance introduced the Lieutenant to her sister, but although Isabeau remained polite, she used the first opportunity to address the reasons for her interruption. "Mother requests to see us, Constance. Pamela just told me."   
  
Constance looked at her sister with a frown. "Where is she? I haven't see her for quiet some time."   
  
Isabeau looked weary. "Pamela said that she is waiting in the gardens."   
  
"In the gardens?" Constance looked incredulous. "But what…" she trailed off, obviously displeased. "Oh, very well. Lieutenant, if you would excuse me for a moment." She nodded at Gillette.   
  
The young Lieutenant offered his arm. "Would you allow me to accompany you?"   
  
Constance gazed questioningly at her sister, who nodded after a moment's hesitation.   
  
Constance beamed. "That's very kind of you."   
  
"The pleasure is mine," he replied and escorted the ladies outside.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Aside from the ball room, the dining hall, the adjourning corridors and the kitchen, the remainder of the Governor's mansion was barely lit. The shadow that hurried up the servant staircase, at the back of the house, was neither seen nor heard. Quiet footsteps rushed past the guest rooms, and a pair of brown eyes carefully spied around the corner of the corridor that led to the main staircase.   
  
The shadow moved past a maintenance closet towards the door of the Governor's private library, where it came to a sudden halt.   
  
The lock had been broken.   
  
The heavy green skirt rustled, as a dagger and a pistol were drawn from underneath a petticoat. Carefully, the shadow opened the door.   
  
The only light that fell into the room was moonlight, which reflected of the shining surface of a desk and chair that occupied the centre of the room. Three armchairs stood in a half circle turned away from the desk towards the wall. Floor to ceiling bookshelves took up every inch of wall space, filled with leather bound tombs. With his back turned towards the door, stood a man. His attention was fixed on the bookshelf to the right side of the room, where the safe was located.   
  
The shadow drew back the pistol's hammer and aimed. The soft clicking noise made the man spin around.   
  
"Jack, what the hell are you doing here?"   
  
Jack Sparrow looked surprised. The emotion lasted for less than a second. Spreading his arms, as if to hug her, he rushed towards the woman.   
  
"Cat! How good to see you again. I need your help."   
  
Cat raised the pistol a fraction of an inch.   
  
Jack stopped, frowned at the weapon, his fingers spider-walking through the air. Then he casually pushed it to the side. "Now that's no way to greet an old friend."   
  
"Jack."   
  
"Yes, luv?"   
  
"What are you doing here?" There was a tight warning in her voice.   
  
"Stealing this illustrious map, of course." He put a arm companionably across her shoulders and pushed her forward so they were standing next to each other. "Though I have to admit, I didn't expect you to come up here quiet this early." Jack looked perturbed.   
  
Cat took a deep, careful breath. "Really?"   
  
Jack nodded sorrowfully. "Yes. You see, I thought I'd just nick the map and leave, and by the time they find dear, unconscious Edward, you would be arrested for the theft and I'd be on my way."   
  
Gritting her teeth, she glared at the pirate's face. He had not changed much since she had last seen him. He still had coins and marbles braided into his hair, still framed those expressive eyes with dark colour. Gold caps on a few teeth, jewellery around his neck and wrists.   
  
His hand pushed almost gently against hers.   
  
"Now, be a dear and take that thing away, because we both know that you're not going to shoot me." He leaned in until his face was far to close to hers and grinned smugly. "You owe me your life, remember?"   
  
The silence stretched between them. Cat continued to glare, until, with a dramatic sigh, Jack backed off, crossed his arms and waited. Reluctantly, she stashed pistol and dagger in the sash of her dress.   
  
Jack took the opportunity to measure her from head to toe.   
  
"You look lovely," he leered playfully.   
  
"Shut up," she snapped, but there was just the barest hint of an exasperated smile that took the sharpness from her voice.   
  
Jack rubbed his hands and walked back to the bookshelf. "Well, then. Which book do I have to pull out? There was so much water in my ears that I didn't hear everything Geraldine said."   
  
Cat looked outraged. "You were eavesdropping!"   
  
"Of course. When I sailed back from England, I saw the Emerald Queen anchoring in a small bay at Tortuga. At first I couldn't believe it, but then I got curious." He glanced back at her.   
  
"Naturally," Cat muttered.   
  
Jack nodded with a smile. "So I looked around a bit and soon there where whispers that you'd gone to Port Royale, and that you were looking for a treasure map there. I was also told that the Bulldog was not far behind." His smile widened. "So you see, I had to come."   
  
Cat crossed her arms and leaned back against desk as if she had all the time in the world. "What so you need more treasures for? From what I heard, that whole cursed island of yours is loaded with gold and silver."   
  
Jack finally turned away from the bookshelf and looked at her mournfully. "They took it away. They have no decency, these navy boys. Loaded everything onto the Dauntless, except the Aztec medallions, of course, and just took it away."   
  
"Poor baby."   
  
Hearing the sarcasm in her voice, Jack gave her a reproachful look and pointed a finger at her. "Oh you just laugh, but those treasures were honestly stolen."   
  
Thoughtfully, Cat pushed away from the desk.   
  
"What were you doing in England?"   
  
Jack looked almost embarrassed, which was something she would not have thought possible.   
  
"Just making sure a friend of mine had a nice honeymoon."   
  
Cat laughed in disbelieve. "You turned the Black Pearl into a passenger vessel?"   
  
Outraged, Jack waved his hands. "No, no, no. I took one friend of mine and his wife to England because they just got married and wanted to spend their honeymoon there. And since the Black Pearl is the fastest ship in the Caribbean and the boy's father was also a friend of mine, I did them a favour. " He gave her an indignant look. "The Black Pearl is a pirate ship. It has always been a pirate ship and it will continue to be a pirate ship." He took a deep breath and stilled the erratic movements of his hands.   
  
Cat was about to say something, but then threw an annoyed glance over her shoulder.   
  
Immediately, Jack straightened. His hand reached for his belt and the pistol that was fastened to it. "Did you hear something?" he asked, his gaze fixed on the door.   
  
Cat's head snapped back around. She seemed embarrassed. "Ahm… no."   
  
While Jack was still looking at her suspiciously, she walked towards the wall and studied the books. Within seconds she had found the volume she was looking for. She turned back towards the pirate captain.   
  
"You can't have the map."   
  
Jack just grinned.   
  
"It' s mine," she insisted.   
  
Jack pressed his hands together as if he were praying.   
  
"Now, you see… at the moment it appears that the map belongs to Mr. Travers and…"   
  
"He stole it. Took it from Captain Gareth's belongings."   
  
"But Gareth was dead. A dead man doesn't have any belongings."   
  
Obviously agitated, Cat stepped forward. "He wants me to have it."   
  
"Wanted."   
  
Cat blinked. "I'm sorry?"   
  
"He wanted you to have it. He died two months ago, didn't he?"   
  
Cat rubbed two fingers against her brow. She felt a headache spreading beneath her skull.   
  
"Yes. He was hanged."   
  
Spreading his arms slightly, Jack nodded. "There you go."   
  
She remained firm. "You can't have it."   
  
Jack approached her slowly his arms still held out in front of him. "Well, I'm not leaving, and not to say that I don't enjoy present company, but we should resolve this quickly, because good old Edward is going to wake up any minute now." He looked cautiously over his shoulder towards the door. "And I really don't want to be here when the guards come barging in."   
  
It took her a moment to consider all options. Fighting, or even just firing a single shot, would have the guards running for the library, so that was not a valid course of action. There was no chance for her to subdue him until she had taken the map and left, either, and to yell for the guards and have him arrested while pretending that she had merely come by the library by accident was far too risky.   
  
"What do you propose?" She scowled at him.   
  
"We split the treasure."   
  
Cat nodded thoughtfully. "I take the map back to the Emerald Queen. You catch up to us and we both go after the gold and diamonds."   
  
A fake laugh tumbled from Jack's lips. "No, my dear. I take the map to the Black Pearl and you catch up to me."   
  
"Why would I trust you?"   
  
Jack seemed honestly offended. "I'm your friend."   
  
"You're the person you planned to steal my map and then have me arrested for a crime I did not commit," she practically spat at him.   
  
"Well, yes. But there is no need to take it personally."   
  
Cat sputtered with anger.   
  
A woman's scream cut the air.   
  
For a moment, the two pirates simply froze, then both of them bolted for the window.   
  
The sound of fighting could be heard from below. There was more screaming and then a shot rang though the night.   
  
Cat looked at Jack. Their eyes met.   
  
"Tell me you didn't…"   
  
"I came alone."   
  
"Damn."   
  
* * * * * * *   
  



	10. Evasive Manoeuvres

IX - Evasive Manoeuvres   
Marceau Gillette didn't know whether it was years of military training, coincidence, or a nudge from his guardian angel that made him glance over his shoulder at the exact same moment a pirate left his cover behind the oleander bush and lunged for him.   
  
With a shout of warning for the two ladies by his side, he spun around, grabbed the pirate's arm and pulled him forward, then used his other hand to deliver a sharp jab at the man's stretched elbow. The sickening sound of breaking bone cut through the air. The knife in the pirate's hand fell to the ground and, with an anguished howl, he sank to his knees.   
  
Gillette heard Isabeau scream and whirled around. Constance was lying unconscious on the ground. Four men had attacked the women and Isabeau was struggling against the two tallest of them while the other, shorter men, lifted Constance from the ground. As Gillette jumped into the fray and knocked one of the short pirates down, he could hear running footsteps approach.   
  
Hoping that they belonged to the guards who had been posted outside the perimeter, he swung at the other man, who had hauled Constance over his shoulder. With the added weight of his precious cargo, the pirate was not fast enough to escape. Gillette decked him with a left hook. Losing his balance, the pirate tumbled backwards and fell into a group of acacias.   
  
Then the first guards came running down the path.   
  
Orders were shouted across the garden. The music in the ballroom had ceased playing. More pirates came out of the underbrush and Gillette was grabbed from behind. The first shot rang out.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Cat rushed towards the bookshelf and pulled at the appropriate volume until her action met resistance. A soft click could be heard and the shelf moved forward half an inch.   
  
With their combined strength it did not take the two pirates long to pull the wooden frame away from the wall.   
  
They both ran their hands over the exposed wood panelling, silently counting the various engraved designs. Simultaneously they pushed at two of those reliefs. The panelling opened and revealed a small alcove situated in the centre of the wall.   
  
Cat reached into the alcove when, suddenly, lights exploded in front of her eyes. She felt the floor rushing upwards to meet her. With a groan she braced her hands on the carpet then reached for her dagger. Jack's retreating form swam before her eyes as she let the blade fly.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Four guards had already reached the acacias, where Isabeau and Lieutenant Gillette struggled against the pirates. The Bulldog swore viscously. He could hear more of those navy boys approach.   
  
"Damn, that woman. She was supposed to get them into the gardens alone." He crouched lower hoping that the tree's canopy would hide him from the guards' eyes.   
  
"This is not going to work. Change of plan, boys." He looked at Saman, one of his two sharpshooters. "Give the signal to draw back. Kill anyone who gets captured."   
  
"You and I," he pointed at Martin, "will kill the women."   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Jack felt searing pain rip through his shoulder. He fell forward, against the door. Taking deep breaths to steady himself he reached behind his back and pulled the dagger out of his flesh.   
  
"That… was not nice."   
  
He turned around and found Cat still lying on the floor. She was breathing slow and carefully and had her left hand pressed to her throbbing temple. In the other hand she held a pistol, which was steadily aimed at him. His hands tightened around the map.   
  
"Now Cat…"   
  
She drew the hammer back and finally looked directly at him.   
  
Jack shivered. He had known Cat for twelve years and would have never thought that she had it in her to kill a man in cold blood. But now he was shocked to realise, that while he was looking into the eyes of a friend, a stranger was looking back out at him. There was a coldness in that gaze that made icy breath dance across the length of his spine.   
  
"The map, Jack. Give me the map!"   
  
The voice was deep and dead. Void of emotion, just filled with untouchable darkness. This was not the girl he had known for over a decade.   
  
"What happened to you?" he asked quietly.   
  
"I need that map."   
  
This wasn't about a treasure, he suddenly realised. There was something else to that map, something he didn't know about.   
  
"What for? You raided the African colonies for the past eight years. You can't tell me that you spent all those diamonds and all the gold, already."   
  
"That map is mine," she persisted and pushed herself into a standing position. She swayed for a second than caught her footing. "Hand it over."   
  
There was a snarl on her face, and, in that moment, Jack knew, that she would kill him.   
  
He had heard the stories, of course. Heard the rumours and whispered tales of the Emerald Queen's captain and the sailors who had crossed her path. Having known Cat since she had first gone on the account, he had dismissed them. He had believed them to be gross exaggerations spread by her and her crew to build a reputation that would keep her out of trouble. Seeing her now, he began to wonder just how much truth was to be found in these stories.   
  
"Help! Somebody help me!"   
  
Jack and Cat both flinched, when they heard the valet's voice.   
  
"Looks like Edward woke up," Jack said and looked back at Cat.   
  
He frowned when he saw her looking uncertain. It was as if a shadow had lifted, leaving him with the girl he had known instead of the predator who had briefly taken her place.   
  
Jack considered his choices. Despite his colourful persona and frequently outrageous behaviour he was no fool. Instinct told him that there was more to this map than met the eye. He found it hard to believe that Cat would be willing to kill a friend for gold and silver. There was something more important at stake here. Never having been one to resist his curiosity, Jack decided that this map was far too interesting to let it slip from his hands.   
  
Carefully, he stepped forward. "I'll make you an offer. The guards are going to be here any minute. If they find us, we will both hang."   
  
Cat, who seemed to have calmed down, scowled in displeasure. "Keep talking."   
  
"We split the treasure, as I proposed earlier." Cutting of her protest, he rushed on. "And we split the map. In ten days we meet at the Isla de Muerta and start our quest from there."   
  
"I don't know where that island is."   
  
Jack smiled and raised his hands, wincing at the pain that still laced his back. "And neither does the Bulldog. You however," and he pulled a compass from his shirt, "just got the directions."   
  
Cat lowered the pistol and approached. She took the compass and opened it, then frowned. "It doesn't point north."   
  
Jack rolled his eyes in exasperation. "The island isn't north of here."   
  
Cat raised an eyebrow. "Interesting."   
  
With a smirk, Jack attempted a bow. "Welcome to the club. Do we have an accord? "   
  
"There is one condition."   
  
Jack was about to object, but she interrupted him.   
  
"This is not negotiable." There was a tight warning in her voice, and, for once, Jack repressed the urge to draw the argument out any further. He could still hear Edward shouting for help. Multiple shots were fired outside and he could here people running up the staircase.   
  
He nodded.   
  
"I get first choice."   
  
"So you can have all the diamonds and I will be stuck loading all the heavy gold?"   
  
"We split the gold and diamonds evenly, but I get first dips on anything that belonged to the Moon Tide."   
  
Jack tilted his head to the side. "Interesting phrasing."   
  
"Take it or leave it."   
  
He could see from the nervous looks that she directed at the door that she had heard the guards as well. Their time was running out. He grasped her hand and shook it.   
  
"Agreed."   
  
He ripped the map in half.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
There was a harsh pounding in her head. Darkness was pulling her down, down, further into the abyss. Constance struggled to push upwards. She knew that she had to stay awake. It was important. So very important.   
  
With a groan, she opened her eyes. There was shouting all around her. The noise made her flinch. She felt something heavy lifted from her legs and finally saw a marine lift one of the pirates, that had attacked her from her body. The pirate lashed out with his sword. The marine parried. Constance watched the fight with sick fascination. She felt disoriented and found it hard to keep her thoughts steady. Carefully, she lifted herself into a sitting position.   
  
There was fighting all around. She saw Lieutenant Gillette struggle with a man who had attacked him from behind, but the young marine seemed to have gained the upper hand. Isabeau was standing a little apart from the fighting men, a hand pressed to her chest, her eyes wide with shock. Two Privates where standing beside her, talking to her in soothing voices.   
  
Suddenly, a hand appeared in front of her face. Her gaze followed the man's arm upward to his face.   
  
"My lady."   
  
Still shacking, she gratefully accepted the offer and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. She had hardly reached a standing position when her gaze clouded over and the world tilted on its axis. She stumbled forward, blind to her surroundings and if the marine had not caught her she would have fallen down again. She could hear the thunder of gun shots and felt the steady support by her side disappear.   
  
Startled, she looked at the man who was supposed to be standing next to her, and was confused to find him lying on the ground. Blood was flowing freely from his back, drenching his uniform with black stains. Canstance choked.   
  
Suddenly she felt herself lifted off her feet and carried towards the house. Her gaze snapped to Commodore Norrington's face, and she winced when the pounding in her skull intensified. The Commodore deposited her next to a younger officer.   
  
"Get her to the house. She has a concussion," he snapped. Then he disappeared again.   
  
The young marine offered her his arm, but Constance had turned back towards the outer wall of the gardens and the mayhem that still occupied the path.   
  
Then she saw Isabeau.   
  
It took her a moment to realise that the motionless body belong to her sister. She lay on her back, the front of her gown covered in blood. The two Privates were crouching beside her. One of them reached for Isabeau's wrist to feel her pulse.   
  
Constance could hear her own blood rushing through her head, drowning out every noise around her.   
  
The marine shook his head, regretfully.   
  
"Nooo!"   
  
Constance didn't realise that she had screamed. She didn't realise that she was running towards her sister's body until she felt herself lifted up once again and carried away. Hot tears ran down her cheeks and her hands reached futilely towards Isabeau.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
The corridor was blocked. The sound of splintering wood could be heard, as a door, further down the hallway, was forced open, and Edward was freed. The only way to escape was through the window.   
  
Jack saluted mockingly. "See you in ten days."   
  
Then he was out the window and half way up to the roof despite the wound in his shoulder.   
  
Cat collected her dagger and wiped it clean on the hem of her skirt. She secured her half of the map, the compass, and both of her weapons, then followed Jack to the window.   
  
Escaping through the garden was not an option. The ground was swarming with marines. She carefully surveyed the handholds that would allow her to reach the roof. It would not be easy to climb up there in her dress, but she could not afford to leave it behind either. She still felt dizzy from the blow that Jack had dealt her. Cursing, she hoped the knife wound would cause him just as much discomfort as he had caused her.   
  
She climbed onto the windowsill and, with a last look towards the library door, which would burst open any moment, she began her ascend.   
  
By the time she had reached the roof, she could hear the guards storming the library. With a last desperate effort she swung herself onto the shingles. She lay flat on her back and tried to breath quietly. Jack was nowhere in sight. Hoping despairingly, that it would take the marines some time to consider the roof as a possible escape route, she scurried over the shingles to the front of the mansion and spied over the rim.   
  
The evening's guests were leaving the estate in a rush. Coaches were rolling through the iron gates in a long procession. There were guards posted here as well, but Cat could not see more than three. The majority of marines had hurried to the gardens. She regrettably looked down at her dress. The climb up the wall had left too many marks on it for her to mingle with the departing crowd.   
  
Cat crawled further along the roof to the eastern corner. Here, she was a good distance away from the driveway and even further from the fighting ground. Below, she could see tightly grown underbrush that was void of human occupation. She lay quietly atop the roof for several minutes, observing the driveway and the ground directly below her.   
  
When no one approached the area, she carefully began to climb downward.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
The last pirate fell to the ground, directly in front of the Commodore. Yet, the head wound that had killed him, had neither been caused by Norrington, nor by one of his men. The shots had come from outside the estate's walls.   
  
Norrington quickly assessed the situation around him. Six pirates were dead, as were two of his marines. Miss Constance Travers had been brought back to the mansion along with her dead sister. Norrington ruthlessly pushed the regret and guilt he had felt at the sight of the lifeless body deep into his mind and locked it away. This was not the time to mourn.   
  
Lieutenant Gillette had caught a bullet through his shoulder. He had bound the wound with cloth, but held the newly acquired sword firmly in his hands. His face was pale, but it was evident that he would not abandon his post or duties without a direct order.   
  
Norrington felt an odd conflict of respect and exasperation rising within him.   
  
"Lieutenant Groves, " he barked.   
  
The young Lieutenant appeared almost instantaneously beside him.   
  
"Yes, Sir."   
  
"Take two men with you down to the harbour. Find the Watch Commander, rouse the Harbour Master. I want all ships, the docks and merchant piers searched. Tell Lieutenant Marrick to divide the remaining guards into six groups to search Port Royale."   
  
"Aye, Sir."   
  
Norrington watched the Lieutenant run across the path, shouting orders. A second later he found himself cornered between Lieutenant Gillette and Governor Swann, who came running from the mansion. Gillette's eyes burned with barely restrained fire but he leashed his temper and allowed the Governor to speak first.   
  
The man was panting from the short run. His wig was askew and an expression of deep concern etched the lines in his face deeper than usual.   
  
"They stole the map. The safe in the library was open and they locked Edward into an empty quest room."   
  
Norrington seized the opportunity to calm the Governor while forcing his wounded Lieutenant to have his shoulder treated.   
  
"I will take care of the matter immediately, Governor. Gillette, accompany the Governor back to the mansion and have a physician look at your injury."   
  
He silenced the protest Gillette was about to voice with a stern look. He could see that the Lieutenant was still seething, because he did not consider the wound serious enough to merit his dismissal from the search parties.   
  
Seeing that his orders were carried out, Norrington called two Privates to his side and headed towards Port Royale.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Cat had safely found her way down the roof and through the underbrush. Her dress had been ruined in the process, but since it had saved her life once by catching on an iron window ornament when she had lost her footing, she saw no need to mourn the loss.   
  
Her arms felt as if they had been filled with lead as she pulled herself on top of the wall that surrounded the estate. Small groups of marines where running down the street towards Port Royale, and she held her breath, praying that she would not be seen. She saw the Commodore run past, just as the last of the coaches rolled out of the gate.   
  
She waited, her gaze sweeping the street. When she was convinced that no more guards or guest were leaving the estate, she slipped onto the pavement and ran into the opposite direction, away from the ocean.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Closely followed by the Privates Murtogg and Mullroy, Commodore Norrington rounded a corner, and found himself in the small square outside the smithy which Mr.Brown had turned over to Will Turner once he had retired. From this vantage point he had a clear view of the harbour and saw with satisfaction that Lieutenant Groves had already carried out his orders, for the piers where swarming with marines.   
  
Without hesitation, he crossed the path and ran towards the short staircase that led up to an archway. Right in front of the archway, in an alcove to the right, stood the statue of a blacksmith. Norrington had almost past the stone figure when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Without thinking, he reacted and turned towards the statue.   
  
A man jumped forward.   
  
At first, Norrington thought that he was hallucinating. *It can't be,* his mind told him, though his eyes allowed no denial.   
  
Jack Sparrow barged straight into his left shoulder and pushed him backwards against the wall. The Commodore instinctively raised his sword to block an attack, but Sparrow was already bounding down the two steps to the square. The pirate managed to evade Mullroy's sword, but Private Murtogg slashed his arm with a downward swipe.   
  
Norrington saw the pirate grimace with pain, but he had already reached the smithy's front door. Norrington charged after him.   
  
"So long, Commodore," Jack said and closed the heavy wooden door in his face.   
  
In his frustration, Norrington threw his body against the door, hoping to force it open before Sparrow could bolt it from the inside with a sturdy beam of wood. The door did not buckle and inch and Norrington felt pain lace through his shoulder. He turned to the two Privates.   
  
"You two open that door," he ordered. Then he was off, up the stairs and through the archway. He knew that the smithy had a back exit, but there was no direct route to it. He ran along the street, turned right, then left, and right again until he finally stood in the smithy's backyard, which held the stables and further storage rooms.   
  
Carefully, he approached the back door. It was still locked. He could hear the efforts of the two Privates, who where hauling themselves at the front door. Without wasting a thought on waiting for reinforcements, he threw his shoulder against the back door. Being nowhere near as sturdy as the front entrance, the wood gave way immediately and Norrington stumbled onto the straw covered floor. At the same moment, Mullroy and Murtogg broke through the front door.   
  
The smithy was empty. Norrington looked at the framework that supported the roof and saw a window above the middle beam hanging open.   
  
Anger boiled up inside of him as he turned towards the Privates. "Split up. Tell every marine you meet that we are looking for Captain Jack Sparrow."   
  
The Privates nodded and hurried away to carry out their orders. Norrington was left standing inside the smithy. The image of Isabeau Travers dead body flashed before his eyes.   
  
"You will hang for this, Sparrow," he whispered.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  



	11. Aftermath

X - Aftermath 

  
They had told her to go to bed. They had told her that she was save now. That nothing would harm her.   
  
Constance stared at the bedroom door, her gaze empty. Her hands were fisted around the thick, cotton blanket. She had stopped crying hours ago, too exhausted to continue sobbing. Her throat was raw, her lungs were aching with every breath she took.   
  
They had told her that everything was going to be fine.   
  
But nothing was fine. It was never again going to be fine. Her sister was dead.   
  
Constance could not close her eyes without seeing Isabeau's blood stained body lying underneath the black sky. Her sister's brown eyes, now black in death, staring at her, pleading with her, accusing her. Constance knew that she would never forget those eyes. They would haunt her till her dying day.   
  
Rationally, she knew that there was nothing she could have done to save her sister, but in her heart she felt only grief and guilt. There was a voice in the back of her mind that kept whispering to her. Telling her that she should have done something, anything, to save Isabeau.   
  
No one had told her about the shots. But once the chaos had quietened, the whispers had started. And everyone had looked at her with that knowledge in his eyes. The knowledge that she had only survived because she had stumbled. Her own clumsiness had saved her from catching the bullet that had been meant for her. Instead it had claimed the life of a young Private. Constance had asked about his name, feeling the irrational urge to know who had died in her stead. But they had not answered her. They had just looked at her with pity and concern, as if she had been so far into hysterics that she would fall apart any moment.   
  
In hindsight, Constance could not deny that their concern had been warranted.   
  
With a shacking hand, she reached for the glass of water, that one of the maids had placed by her bed. Swallowing carefully, Constance forced the cool liquid down her sore throat.   
  
Although she felt almost numb with grief, she could not entirely ignore the cold, freezing fury that had begun to lace her heart just beneath the surface. For some reason, she could not stop shivering. She had inquired after Mirabelle, but no one would tell her if her youngest sister was unharmed. Her father, trembling with anger and grief, had come by late this morning and had attempted to soothe her. He had finally admitted that her mother had suffered a severe concussion and was resting. But no matter how she had pleaded with him, he would not tell her what had happened to Mirabelle.   
  
Bereft of any information that might have calmed her, Constance had been left to the relentless trappings of her own imagination. When she was not confronted with images of Isabeau, she saw pictures of Mirrabelle's cold body lying in her bed, the sheets drenched with blood, her little sister's innocent face twisted into a death mask of fear and anguish.   
  
Constance had tried to push these thoughts away, firmly reminding herself that the pirates had meant to abduct them, not kill them. That it had probably been the unexpected presence and resistance of Lieutenant Gillette that had forced these men to change their plans.   
  
But Mirabelle, little Mirabelle, would have been sleeping. She would have caused them little trouble. There could not have been any need to kill her.   
  
But even if she had only been kidnapped, would her fate really be much improved, Constance could not help but wonder. Maybe a quick death would have been merciful for her little sister.   
  
Every time her thoughts circled around to this point she berated herself. She did not wish for the death of another sister. She just wanted to wrap her arms around Mirabelle and convince herself that they were both safe. That nothing could harm them as long as they stayed together. That eventually everything would be fine.   
  
She had told her father that it had been Pamela, Mirabelle's maid, who had told Isabeau and her to go to the gardens. She was sure, if the servant girl had not been found yet, a wide search would currently be undertaken, but Constance doubted that the woman would be found.   
  
Constance stared at the door until the singular beam of light, which fell through drawn curtains upon the thickly woven carpet, told her that it was almost noon. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. She had to know.   
  
She slipped into her dressing-gown and quietly walked to the door. Now that Constance had decided to take action, she felt anger boiling to the surface. The feeling of helplessness, which had consumed her while she had been confined to bed, fled from her mind.   
  
Carefully, avoiding even the smallest sound, Constance opened the door and peaked outside.   
  
The corridor was empty.   
  
With a sound of relief, she hurried through the door and pulled it almost closed, leaving but half an inch between the frames, in case she had to return in a hurry. She reached Mirabelle's bedroom within a few seconds and slipped inside. As Constance had expected, the room was empty. She looked carefully at the bed and floor but could not find any blood stains on the sheets or carpet. Constance left, not feeling relieved at all.   
  
She tiptoed through the hallway, towards the main staircase, where she found an adequate hiding place between a polished wooden cabinet and a large Chinese floor vase, which was stuffed with long ferns and exotic flowers.   
  
Her father's loud, agitated voice was drifting through the closed study doors. Constance listened carefully until she heard the deep, calm timbre of Commodore Norrington and the lighter, more fragile nuances of Governor Swann's voice as well. Hoping that the mansion's servants would keep their distance from the argument, Constance crouched lower and listened.   
  
* * * * * * *  
  
"I am not asking for your permission, Commodore. I am informing you of my decision as a courtesy."   
  
Commodore Norrington met Richard Travers' look of open anger with cold solemnity. It was that composed, stern manner that had caused Mr. Travers temper to rise.   
  
"With respect, I don't believe you have the authority to make that decision, Mr. Travers," the Commodore replied.   
  
Richard took a deep breath, trying to get the rage and desperation inside of him under control, but it was to no avail.   
  
"One of my daughters is dead," he said, and felt a vicious sense of satisfaction when Norrington flinched. It was the first display of emotion that he had ever witnessed from the officer.   
  
"My youngest is missing," he continued. "Constance is in shock and barely escaped within an inch of her life, and my wife was viciously assaulted. And you're telling me that I don't have the authority?!" He stepped forward until he invaded the Commodore's personal space.   
  
"Gentlemen, please."   
  
Richard could hear the Governor's attempt to arbitrate the conflict, but he ignored his friend. Isabeau's death had jolted him badly. And the thought that Mirabelle was at the mercy of the same monsters, who had ended the life of his eldest daughter, was unbearable.   
  
And all because of that damned map. He had been so sure, that Robert was the only one who knew of the map. That he would be the only one to come after it and take his vengeance on him. Not for a moment had Richard considered that his family would also be in danger.   
  
Richard felt the Governor's restraining hand on his shoulder and allowed himself to be pulled back. The Commodore was still looking at him with an unmoving mask of indifference.   
  
"Richard, it has been my experience that Commodore Norrington is most capable to handle situations such at these. He has earned my absolute trust and confidence." Governor Swann forced Richard to turn around. "I assure you that everything will be done to free your daughter and return her to you unharmed. We had dealings with this Jack Sparrow before and I am certain that Mirabelle is not in any immediate danger."   
  
The words of his old friend held no comfort.   
  
"He killed Isabeau," Richard reminded Elerby in a broken voice. He did not miss the uncertain look the Governor exchanged with Norrington.   
  
To Richard Travers, Norrington's reputation had provided an additional measure of safety. The Commodore had proven himself to be a fierce opponent for any pirate who sailed the Spanish main. Richard had thought that his brother would be hesitant to cross paths with an officer of such renown, and had hoped that he would have enough time to decipher the map before Robert would make another attempt to steal it.   
  
Upon his arrival in Port Royale he had been surprised to discover that the Commodore was rather young. Once he had heard the Governor's account of Elizabeth Swann's kidnapping, and the way Norrington had left Port Royale unprotected in his effort to find the Governor's daughter, his opinion of the officer had greatly diminished. Adding to this was the fact that Jack Sparrow had evaded justice twice while Norrington had been in command.   
  
Richard could not bring himself to leave the fate of his youngest daughter in the hands of this man.   
  
He shook off Elerby Swann's hand and stepped back until he could face both men.   
  
"Commodore, I will accompany you on the Pirece. My daughter's life is at stake here. When you go after her captors, I will not be left behind."   
  
The Commodore gave him a measured look, which put Richard immediately on guard.   
  
"What about the map?"   
  
It took Richard a moment to realise that the Governor had been the one to ask the question.   
  
"The map? What do I care about that map? This is my family which was ripped apart."   
  
Poisoned tendrils of guilt wrapped around his mind. He had wanted the Moon Tide's treasure for so long, had sought it desperately as his wealth diminished. He had seen his father's money slip from his fingers, cascading into a bottomless pit filled with creditors.   
  
Richard had never been a man to squander his inheritance. He had prided himself on his steadfastness and strength to escape to lure of gambling and excessive drinking. Instead he had continued in his father's footsteps and expanded the trading grounds of his shipping company.   
  
And then, thirteen years ago, everything had started to fall apart. His merchant ships had been attacked with conspicuous regularity and as his ships sank and their cargos were stolen it did not take long for revenues to deplete. Faced with bankruptcy, he had doubled his efforts to apprehend his brother, for he was sure that Robert was the instigator of the attacks on his ships. In the end, it had proved to be a futile endeavour. Robert had eluded capture, his reputation growing more vicious and fearsome as the months had passed.   
  
When he, Richard, had first heard of a map marking the location of the Moon Tide's treasure he had not really believed it. Too many legends had conglomerated over time, placing the Moon Tide in the same realm as Atlantis and the Holy Grail. It was desperation which had inclined him to investigate the rumours. A search which had led him back to his brother and another pirate by the name of Captain Gareth.   
  
At this time his ambition to find the treasure had become an obsession. By chance he had finally acquired the map, but with it came the knowledge that he had as good as snatched it from his brothers greedy fingers. His elation was short-lived as the realization dawned that from this day on he would never be save. Robert would come after him. And there was no stopping his brother. Still, Richard had taken the risk, combined the last vestiges of his possessions and set sail for the new world, hoping that the voyage and the protection of his old friend Elerby Swann and the Commodore of the Port Royale fleet, James Norrington would buy him enough time to translate the map and maybe, just maybe, put an end to Robert 'The Bulldog'.   
  
But now his family had been assaulted and Richard Travers had to pay the price for his arrogance. Suddenly the treasure wasn't important anymore and he spent hours berating himself for his foolishness and self righteousness. He had never spent much time with his family, but he had taken pride in seeing Isabeau grow from the young complacent girl into a beautiful woman. To compare the same woman with the lifeless form he had just hours before seen sprawled on the garden path was simply so inconceivable, so... wrong that his brain refused to accept that this was indeed his daughter.   
  
It was for that reason that Mirabelle's disappearance struck him even harder. But it was also at least a problem he could focus on solving, providing him with a desperately needed occupation.   
  
Elerby sighed in exasperation. "You were not afraid that Jack Sparrow would steal the map, Richard. You said yourself that you had never even heard of him. Yet, ever since you arrived in Port Royale, you've been looking over your shoulder."   
  
The Governor cut of his protest with a short motion of his hand.   
  
"I did not press the matter, because you have been a good friend to me, Richard, but given the circumstances…"   
  
Richard backed up. He had expected the question, of course. Just as he had suspected his brother to knock at his door one day. He had been immeasurably relieved when the Commodore seemed convinced that Jack Sparrow, and not someone else, had been responsible for last night's incident.   
  
He had dared to hope then that his brother had not found him yet. That he was still safe. Nevertheless, the life of his daughter could not possibly be measured against all the gold and diamonds in the world. Now he only feared for Mirabelle's safety and the revenge Robert would bring down on him once his brother caught up to him.   
  
But he had not caught up, yet. Robert had not found him. It was Jack Sparrow who had taken the map and harmed his family. Jack Sparrow and no one else. It had to be. He had to believe that.   
  
"Do you honestly think that I would withhold information from you, when my daughter's life is at stake?" he sputtered.   
  
Governor Swann stared at him for a long moment. "Yes."   
  
Richard's eyes widened in outrage. The fact that Norrington seemed as taken aback by the frankness of Elerby's answer as he was, provided little consolidation for him.   
  
"How dare you!"   
  
"Richard, I've had quiet enough." The Governor insisted, uncommonly stern. "You said it yourself. One of your daughters is dead. And this map has blinded you beyond reason."   
  
He took a deep breath, his expression grim.   
  
"I blame myself. I have known you for years and yet, I refused to see the influence this confounded piece of paper had on you." He grasped Richards by the shoulders. "I implore you, if you have any information that might help the Commodore to find Mirabelle, tell us."   
  
Richard stared at his friend for several moments, incapable to form coherent thought.   
  
"There is nothing to tell. It was Jack Sparrow. The Commodore said so. He saw Jack Sparrow running from the guards. He killed my daughter and took Mirabelle." There was a desperation to his voice that even he could not deny.   
  
Elerby looked at him crestfallen, his eyes full of regret.   
  
"If that's all you have to say, Richard."   
  
"It is."   
  
Governor Swann rubbed a hand over his tired face. "Very well, then. Would you excuse us, please? The Commodore and I still have a few matters to discuss."   
  
Richard felt the resignation radiating off the Governor. However he was not about to be left out of any discussion concerning his daughter's rescue. "I want to make it perfectly….   
  
Governor Swann interrupted him with a firm voice that allowed no argument. "You WILL be aboard the Pierce, when she leaves the Port. You have my word." Elerby was looking at him, as if he were a stranger.   
  
*Tell them,* a voice whispered in the back of his mind. *Tell them everything. They can help.*   
  
Richard beat that voice down. He could not bare to think that his relation with one of Africa's most feared and notorious pirates could become public knowledge. He could not tell the truth. Not even his wife knew about Robert. He had spent twenty years of his life to bury his past. The shame it would bring down upon his family... The shame that little Mirabelle would have to live with, if the truth was discovered...   
  
*No,* he thought. *I will take that secret to my grave.*   
  
Clenching his teeth, Richard left the study.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Several hours earlier. At dawn.   
  
The sun was just breaking over the horizon, its light slowly reclaiming the ground it had lost towards the end of the previous day.The sea was still and quiet around the Rip Tide's hull. Not the slightest breeze disturbed the palm trees on shore.   
  
The Bulldog's gaze swept the vessel's weather deck, the pier and deserted beach from beneath the giant ferns which provided him and his party with sufficient cover. All lay quiet before him, when suddenly a bright light blinded his vision. He flinched, then turned his eyes towards the light's source. His first mate stood on the Rip Tide's quarterdeck letting the sun reflect off a piece of glass.   
  
That was the prearranged signal.   
  
Without a word Robert made for the gangway, knowing that his men would follow him. He could hear Martin struggle with the trashing and wriggling bag on his broad shoulders, but Robert payed no heed. He stepped on board the ship and made straight for his first mate Stevens.   
  
The men behind him dispersed, Martin and Saman taking their guest to her quarters, the remaining men, eager for some wine and sleep, hurried down to the galley.   
  
"What news?" Robert asked without preamble.   
  
Stevens face was grim. "Bad ones." The man gave his Captain a court nod. "The maries searched the whole Port last night."   
  
"That was to be expected."   
  
"Yes, but when they were aboard the Rip Tide a Private joined them, saying that they were to look for a Captain Jack Sparrow."   
  
Robert leaned backwards, his gaze drifting towards the open sea, as something tugged at his memory. "Jack Sparrow?... I'm sure I've heard that name before."   
  
Stevens shrugged. "Doesn't mean anything to me."   
  
Deep in thought Robert rubbed a calloused hand over his chin. "Did they say anything else?"   
  
"No, but we got a letter from our friend." And with those words Stevens handed a charred parchment to his Captain.   
  
The Bulldogs eyes widened as he read the short message. "That blasted woman!" he cursed. Agitated, he started pacing the quarterdeck's limited space. "Why didn't he get a message to us sooner? This Jack Sparrow again. Who is he? How could this happen?"   
  
Stevens looked uncomfortable. "I have no idea, Captain. But I took the liberty to prepare everything for an immediate pursuit of the Emerald Queen. If we leave immediately we can corner her before Cat Cassidy has a chance to leave Tortuga."   
  
Robert, who had been striding across the deck, came to a sudden halt.   
  
"Good man, Stevens. We will set out right away. But the Queen isn't going anywhere. She can't match us for speed. No Steven, we have to go after this Sparrow fellow first. I might not have heard about him, but the Black Perl sure means something to me. She fast, Stevens, very fast. If we don't catch her now, while she is still close by, we might never get close to her again. The sooner I get Sparrow's half of the map, the better."   
  
Shifting from one foot to the other, Stevens nodded. "What about the girl? We don't really need her anymore now."   
  
Robert leaned against the railing his face grim. "There goes a perfectly good plan to ruin," he spat. "If I ever get my hands on that woman..." He turned around, braced his hands along the wooden balustrade and sighed deeply.   
  
"We keep the girl. For now. She might still have her uses. If only her absence causes her father to go mad with worry, then this plan was still good for something."   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
TBC 

I apologise that it's taking me such a long time to get new chapters out. I hope to have more time once I'm done with my exams.

And a big "Thank You" to everyone who reviewed and encouraged me. It really means a lot and I can't say how much I appreciate it. Thank you.   
  



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